Soul Consumption
by Color Me In
Summary: Two years after leaving Erik's lair with Raoul, Christine is finally too overwhelmed by her guilt and her unkept promises. Her return to Paris leads to unexpected events and emotions, sending her heart and mind into turmoil. R and R!
1. Chapter One

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter One**

**Disclaimer:** I, sadly, do not own Phantom of the Opera. It belongs to Gaston Leroux.

**Author's Note:** This is my first PotO fic. Therefore, whomever reads… please, hold nothing back. Criticism is asked for. Also, it will bridge off of the original novel, with a spice of the musical every so often. The title will most definitely change. Read, review, and thank you.

* * *

Every time Christine walked past the framed piece of newspaper, her stomach and heart did small flips inside of her chest. And sadly, she had to walk past it every single day. And she had been, for over two years now. It brought back the guilt every time her eyes happened to glace upon it, every time a guest asked Raoul or herself of it. And her guilt was not some small, harmless thing. It blossomed into a large oak tree, its branches sliding through each limb, each muscle, each nerve.

Two years ago, Christine had been in town with Raoul. He had gone to buy a paper while she did a little shopping. However, as he paid the young boy working at the stand, the headline of the _Epoque_ caught her attention. Even though they had fled the memories of Paris, the news still reached the small little town outside of the busy city. Shock rushed through Christine's body like lightning. When Raoul saw her stare of horror, he whispered her name, but she did not hear it. The three printed words continued to be spoken in her mind by some unseen force.

_Erik is dead. Erik is dead. Erik is dead…_

Her emotions had been still painfully raw, and any stitches she had placed upon her heart burst upon reading those words. Guilt flooded her, like a dam being broken. For days, she was drowned in it. If only she had stayed… if only she had been able to do something for the pitiful, dark angel she had encountered in the walls and dungeons of the Opera House. If only she could have given him what he wanted… the only thing he wanted.

And Raoul's triumph, his utter happiness at the reported death of the monster that had almost ruined his life and his love, did not help extinguish the burning pain of her guilt. But her fiancé didn't take her pain into heart, even if he did see it swimming in her blue eyes. Instead, he hung the newspaper clipping in the front hall, next to the door, in a beautifully carved frame. Even upon her pleading, he refused to take down the trophy.

"He is finally dead, Christine!" Raoul had cried, his eyes flashing in emotion. "He can no longer haunt us! We no longer have to live in fear. We can purely live, my love. We can live."

Christine, however, did not hold his sentiments. She had been haunted since the day he had freed them with tears in his brilliant golden eyes. She had cried with him, kissed his deformed face. And then she had left that dark, dingy lair of Erik's with her love, and as Raoul said, with her life. But she also left that darkness with a promise. A promise to return, to bury her Ghost with the golden ring he had gingerly placed upon her finger as a symbol of the undying love his heart held for her.

However, that small promise was not completed. Upon Christine's explanation, Raoul refused to let her leave the house. "You will not be a slave to that… that _thing_," he spat, his cheeks flushing with anger. "I refuse to let you! It is over! Over! You are mine, do you hear me? My finance! Not his! Let him rot in Hades where he belongs! He does not deserve your eyes to be upon him. I refuse it!"

"But Raoul, I must do this!" she had cried. "I will never be free if I don't!"

"But Christine," he said softly, taking her face in his hands. "You are free. He is dead. All the power that pitiful creature held over you… it has died with him." There was no more talk of Erik between them after that. Raoul forbade it.

Christine never made it to the funeral of her Ghost. And now, two years after the dreadful news of Erik's death, her heart had still not mended, and the gold band still rested on the ring finger of her right hand.

* * *

_She was back in the dark, damp lair that was Erik's. Everything looked so, so familiar. The tables, the candles, the furniture. They all sat in the same place as if nothing had ever happened. And him… he was where she knew he'd be._

_Erik sat as his organ, his head moving with the passionate music he played. His fingers danced across the keys gracefully, as if he had been born to play such heart-wrenching pieces that made your skin crawl and your blood run cold. _

_He didn't notice her standing there behind him. He didn't notice when she was standing mere inches from him. Or maybe he did? She couldn't tell. His eyes were closed, his lips open as he took in sharp breathes, as if playing took the very oxygen from him. The mask still adorned the side of his face, hiding the disfigurement that she had not feared. _

_Suddenly, the music stopped. "Why do you visit me? You are unwelcome here."_

_His voice startled her. She took a few steps backward, unable to control the sudden harsh beating of her heart inside of her rib cage. "I…"_

"_Just leave, Christine," he said softly. He didn't look at her. He didn't so much as smile sadly, or even grimace. His face stood stoic, so unlike the expressive features she remembered. _

"_But, Erik. I need to…"_

"_To what?" he snapped, now turning on the bench to face her. His eyes blazed with gold fury. "To apologize? Do you expect me to except such a thing!" _

"_He wouldn't… he wouldn't let me come," she replied weakly, wringing her hands together. Her heart gave another flip against her ribs as Erik stood. _

"_He wouldn't let you come," the Phantom mocked, his usually beautiful voice laced with anger and malice. "He is not your keeper!"_

"_I wanted to come," she said softly, finally looking up at him. When their eyes made contact, a shiver went down her spine. She saw the same quiver reflected in his eyes. "I really did. I wanted to see you one last time, I wanted to cry to you once more, to tell you how sorry I was! I wanted to bury you with this ring!" She held up her right hand up for him to see. The golden ring shimmered in the candlelight._

_Erik's hard features softened ever so slightly. "It makes no difference," he said softly. _

"_But it does!" Christine cried, moving toward him. Her stomach tied itself into knots when he stepped away from her, as if she were going to strike him._

"_It does not matter, Christine," he repeated, turning away from her. "There would have been nothing here for you to bury."

* * *

_

Christine sat up quickly, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The dreams were relentless. _You would think I would be used to them by now_, she thought, turning to glace at the other side of the bed. The pillow was dented, but no body rested there. The sheets were cold.

"Raoul?" she called softly, as she slipped from bed. She noticed a figure on the balcony and made her way toward the slightly ajar door. Raoul stood near the rail, his arms resting upon it. Christine frowned. His feet were bare, his shirt thin, and the night chilly. She could see the goose bumps marring the skin of his arms. He stared up at the sky, his eyes seeming to search the stars for something he couldn't fine. "Raoul?"

"I do not understand it, Christine," he said softly. He tore his eyes away from the stars to glance at her. "Are you still not free from the past?"

Christine felt the color drain from her face. "What do you mean?" She stepped toward him; he stepped away. The vivid picture of Erik stepping away from her in her dream slammed into her mind.

"You call his name in your sleep almost every night," he said helplessly, his face full of betrayal. "I do not know what to do anymore. How am I to react to that, Christine?"

"They are nightmares, Raoul," she said softly. It wasn't completely a lie. They always left her scared and helpless, just like any nightmare, but she was never scared because of the man accompanying her in the dream. Her fear stemmed from the guilt she felt when she woke up, that she soaked in like a sponge, at the very mention of him. "Do not doubt where my loyalties lie, Raoul. I beg of you."

"But I cannot help it," he said quietly, "when it is that _thing_ you dream of at night." Christine started to speak, but he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "No matter. Let's go back to bed."

No more words were spoken as they both climbed into bed. When Christine woke up that morning, Raoul was already gone for work.

That afternoon, it was chilly and dreary outside when one of the maids came to announce that Christine had a visitor. Christine walked cautiously to the window, peering out to see who would have traveled to see her. The sight made her heart catch in her throat. She hurried to the door and threw it open, ignoring the butler that stood bewildered beside her.

When Meg Giry walked up to the door, Christine was overwhelmed with nostalgia. She threw her arms around the dark haired girl who she had not seen since the night she and Raoul had left the Opera House for good, two years prior The tight embrace was returned, and the two young women pulled back to look at the other.

"Christine! You look lovely! It's been so long!"

"I know. How are you? How is your mother?" The two girls sat next to each other on the cushioned couch in the living room, hip to hip, as they clasped hands.

"I have been doing well. So has mother." She smiled brightly. "I'm dancing at a theater just outside of Paris. I'm the lead! It's so exciting! Mother lives there with me. She did not want to stay in Paris after the incidents at the Opera House. But, as it is opening again soon, I think I will go back. It's hard to get over such memories that form in that place." Seeing Christine's tightening features, she quickly changed the subject. "And you? I hear that you are engaged!"

Christine's cheek flushed as she nodded with a small smile. She was still trying to get used to the thought of being Raoul's wife. The ring on her finger suddenly felt heavy on her hand. "Raoul asked me about a month and a half ago. We're to be married later this year."

"That's wonderful, Christine! And you've been well? This house is absolutely beautiful," Meg gasped, loosening one hand from Christine's to wave it around her. The house had three, rather large floors. Paintings of landscapes and family portraits littered the high walls, and the tall windows let in the dim light from outside. Each room was furnished in such a way that was fit for a queen.

"You should see the garden," Christine said with a smile. "It's nice to be outside of Paris. There's so much more room to breathe." _And to forget._

"Oh, believe me, I understand. The town I'm in is not so pretty or as full of greenery as this, but it is relatively small compared to Paris. And relatively calm."

Meg's bright smile lit something in Christine. Memories flooded back, but she tried to push them away. She didn't need to remember anymore. She needed to forget, to move on. Could she blame herself forever? However, it wasn't possible to forget. Not with Meg's next sentence.

"Oh, speaking of Paris, I have a very old message from you. I hadn't a clue how to get in touch with you until you wrote to me recently, so I was never able to deliver the message to you." At Christine's nod, she continued. "Right after you left Paris, there was someone at the Opera House, asking for your location. I didn't tell him, of course. I didn't have much time to speak to him, either, as I was hurrying to leave and catch a train."

Christine felt the color slowly drain from her face? Could it be? Was he… alive? "And who was it?"

"The Persian," Meg said, her dark eyebrows arching. She didn't notice the sharp breath Christine let out. "He kept saying that he needed to get in touch with you, that it was urgent. I waved him away, with his talk of some important promise. He didn't even know you! I didn't even know who he was at fir…."

Meg's words fell upon deaf ears. Christine felt herself grow lightheaded. _My promise to Erik_, she thought as her heart constricted and her head swam. _He knew of it. He came to have me complete it._ A new, more powerful wave of remorse pulsed through her veins, turning her skin icy.

"Christine? Christine, are you all right?" Meg placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. Christine flinched before looking her friend dead in the eyes. She was silent for a few moment, but when she did speak, her voice was soft and determined.

"Can you get me to Paris?"

Meg stared at her as if she was a madwoman. "Paris? What do you want to go to Paris for? There's nothing left in Paris for you, spare an Opera House you don't wish to go back to."

"I… there's something I need to do there," Christine stuttered. How could she explain? How could she describe the sudden pounding of her heart? She didn't even understand it herself.

"What about Raoul?" Meg said, blinking in confusion. "Do you plan to tell him of your departure?"

"He doesn't need to know. He would only attempt to stop me, but I cannot be stopped this time." Meg's doubtful look made Christine grasp her friend's hands tightly. Her blue eyes pleaded with the ballerina. "Please, Meg! I need to go there. I need to finish something or else it is going to consume me."

"I believe, Christine Daaé," Meg said softly, her forehead etched with lines of worry, "that whatever you plan to return to has already consumed you."

When Raoul returned home that night, Christine did not greet him, as he was accustomed to. A maid, her cheeks flushed in anticipation and anxiousness, shakily handed the Comte de Chagny an envelope. Raoul's name was scrawled over the paper in curvy, feminine handwriting. Upon opening it, Raoul's skin paled at the first few, and only few lines that decorated the otherwise blank sheet of paper.

* * *

_My dearest Raoul,_

_I do not think I have to explain to you where I have gone. I only need assure you that I will return to you when I have completed the purpose of my journey. My soul cries out to me from some far off place, and I must go retrieve it so that I may finally be free. Until then, you mustn't come find me. Please, Raoul. I beg of you, let me do this myself. It is the only way._

_Love,_

_Christine_


	2. Chapter Two

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Two**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Phantom of the Opera_ (unfortunately…). It belongs to Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Weber.

**Author's Note:** Okay, this is purely for trying to minimize confusement. I know I said that I was going to base this off of the original novel, and I still am, as this is a sequel to it (and I therefore need the book ending, der). However, from here on out, you're going to be seeing a lot of stuff that's incorporated in the movie and the musical, as well. I find that both the novel and the musical/movie will serve me well in writing this fic, so it will all be combined. I hope that confusion will be minimized; if you're confused, ask a question and I'll be happy to specify. Enjoy and review!

* * *

The past seemed to come in harsh, violent waves as Christine stared up at the extravagant building that had once been her home. Her throat constricted as she let her eyes gaze over every detail of the _Opéra Populaire_. Spare the work that had been done to make it look even more vivid and exquisite than she remembered, it had not changed. The decorative columns, the terraces, the large windows, the statues that had been carved with so much care… so much that they seemed to come alive. It was all so familiar in it's extravagant glory.

Craning her head back so that all the loose curls fell away from her face, she stared up at the statue of Apollo's Lyre, which had been the scene of her and Raoul's confession of love. The statue of the boyishly handsome Greek God, standing so high above her, seemed to whisper secrets to her, but she realized that it was only the wind.

_So many memories_, she thought gravely, trying to keep her eyes focused and out of the dream-like world of reminiscence.

"Christine?"

She snapped her head toward the black-haired girl who stood behind him. "What?"

"We can go in, if you'd like…mother is already here, and knows the men who are paying for the reconstruction. She was staying in Paris while I went to visit you, and I sent word to her this morning that we were coming." Meg half-smiled, not particularly liking the glaze that had seemed to come over Christine's eyes.

"Oh… that would be fine," the light-haired brunette said, forcing a smile upon her own lips even as her skin started to crawl with anticipation. Inside the Opera House? After so long? Would the walls whisper unspoken secrets she longed to remember but longed to forget? Christine contented herself with deep breaths as Meg took her hand and led her up the stairs, leading to the large doors of the _Populaire_.

Inside the Opera House was like a zoo. Men littered the floor, their voices echoing and combining into one loud buzz. Christine looked around, her heart pounding in her chest. Oh, it was the same. The same golden lining, the same painted ceiling. The Grand Staircase loomed in front of her like a giant. How had they fixed it after the damage that had been caused when the chandelier had come crashing down onto guests? There was not a burn mark in sight, not a scratch, not a disfigurement. It was perfect.

"Meg Giry!"

Meg and Christine both turned to see Madame Giry hurrying toward them. She didn't have to fight through the crowds of men that filled the large room; they moved out of her way immediately, as if her presence was one that demanded authority. She was dressed in black, as she always was, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun. She paused in her quick step, however, when she laid eyes upon Christine. She hadn't seen the girl in two years and was surprised at how much she had grown.

The innocence had faded away from her face, leaving her looking very much like a woman. The dark blue gown, trimmed in glinting silver patterns of roses on the sleeves, neck, and hem, clung to her curves and made her eyes come to life. As the dress fell off of her shoulders, she wore a cape of the same blue that was pinned gracefully over her shoulders with a silver rose clasp. Her thick mane was pulled back with a silver ribbon, leaving several loose curls to frame her pale face, while the rest fell down her back and over her shoulders.

"Christine Daaé… it is a pleasure to see you after such a long time," Madame Giry said with a small nod, continuing toward the two young women.

"It is nice to see you as well, Madame," Christine said, bowing her head as the older woman stopped in front of her. "I hope you are well."

Madame Giry's dark eyes looked Christine over again. "I am, thank you. And so are you, it seems." Her eyes had slid to Christine's left hand, where her engagement ring glittered under the bright lights.

Christine watched as the woman's eyes fell upon her right hand, where the plain, gold band decorated her ring finger. Her eyebrow arched as Christine hurriedly buried her hands under the folds of her cape. When Christine's eyes met the older woman's, she was fighting off a blush under the Madame's hard, dark stare. "I am well, thank you."

"Meg has told me of your engagement, and I congratulate you. I was surprised, though. I thought you and that young Chagny would have married already, as I believe you two were already engaged before you left Paris."

Christine felt her face heat up. "That is true, Raoul and I were engaged when we left Paris. But after all of the events that occurred here, I decided that I wished to postpone the engagement until we were settled."

Madame Giry looked at her with speculation, ignoring Meg's icy stares. "And it took such a long time to do so?"

Christine's eyes were as icy as Meg's glares. Her face, however, continued to turn darker shades of rose. "After the death of the late Comte de Chagny, Raoul and I both had much to do, as well as much on our minds. Neither us of were ready to make such a commitment while so much was weighing on our shoulders. Only recently has the Chagny business stabilized completely, and so Raoul asked me to be his wife."

Madame Giry nodded, taking her eyes away from Christine's. "Again, I congratulate you and the Comte. Now, my dears, I must go and speak to the new manager, Monsieur Delvin. He is a very fine man. Maybe tonight, Christine, you will come to sup with us so that you may meet him? Until then, I must take Meg with me… the Monsieur wishes to speak with her about her upcoming roles."

"May I look around while I wait on her?" Christine asked, turning away from Meg who was staring at her with a hard, speculative look.

"Oh, yes. Of course." Madame Giry's voice held an almost unnoticeable cynical tone, as if she knew something. "But please, do try not to get in the way of the workers. Meg will not take long. Come, child."

Meg glanced at Christine and was about to speak, but her mother pulled her. Again as quickly as she had hurried toward them, she was moving away, parting the sea of men as she did so, with Meg on her heels. Christine watched them go, the ice slowly forming in her stomach as anxiousness filled her.

Christine looked around for a moment, not sure where she wished to venture first. The Entrance Hall, where she was now, was packed with workers who were adding the last touches of paint to the walls and setting up the last of the decorations. She did know, however, that she wanted to get out of that room. Not needing to ask for directions, she picked up her skirts and started to walk down a small hallway that lead into the room she had used as a dedication to her father during her days at the Opera House.

Workers glanced her way, their eyebrows rising. They hadn't a clue who the beautiful woman was, but made no move to stop her or ask her name. They tilted their heads at each other when she disappeared down a small corridor. Apparently the woman knew where she was going. Maybe she was the daughter of the Monsieur who had bought the cursed Opera Populaire. They had heard word of the woman's beauty, and her dancing and singing ability was known throughout France. So, of course, there was no reason to halt the girl's exploration. With shrugs, they went back to their work.

* * *

All that lit her way were a few torches, placed far apart from each other. But the lack of sufficient light didn't hinder her. She knew the hall like the back of her hand. However, her eyes still darted back and forth. The walls seemed to whisper to her as she walked down the corridor.

_Christine… oh, Christine…_

Setting her shoulders straighter as she walked, Christine refused to turn around and go back. She had suffered from more than just whispers, hadn't she? Whispers! There were no such things as ghosts, so that was beyond speculation. But still, the echoing voice that sounded so soft and full of depth sent shivers down her spine.

_Christine… no… oh, Christine, no…_

She was happy when she came to the door of the chapel. Paint that had once colored the door had long vanished in large amounts, leaving spots of brown, scorched wood in view. The door had been burnt, that was obvious. But it seemed as if it had been spared the devastating flame that had devoured much of the rest of the Opera House.

The door barely budged when she attempted to open it. Rust and dull green paint flaked away from the hinges as the young woman pulled. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the handle of the door and leaned back on her heels. However, she only succeeded in bruising her hands. Letting go of the handle, Christine let out a frustrated breathe, flicking the stray curls away from her eyes. _The room must have been unused since my days here_, she thought grimly.

"I will not give up," she said softly to no one in particular. "Do you hear me? You cannot keep me out. I will open that door, if it is the last thing I do." Tossing her cape away from her shoulders and behind her, she grabbed onto the handle again, both hands curing around the grimy piece of metal. Both engagement rings on either hand dug into the delicate skin of her fingers. Gritting her teeth, Christine ignored the pain and pulled with all of her strength.

She gave a screech as she stumbled backward. The door had pulled free from whatever had sealed it shut, and its sudden, very forceful freedom had caused her to stagger. Tripping over her skirts, she fell onto her back. The coldness of the floor seeped through her clothing immediately, and pain followed up her back. With a groan, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Dirt now decorated her gown, much like the silver designs of thread. Sighing, Christine struggled to stand. Dusting the dirt from the back of her dress, she peered into the darkened room.

The dim light of the hallway didn't serve in sending any light into the room. Christine felt the first waves of doubt sneak into her mind and body. Turning around and picking up her skirts, she walked back down the way she had come. But instead of continuing back out into the Entrance Hall, she paused in front of one of the torches. Reaching up, she grabbed the part of wood that was not covered in flame or held by the iron cradle. She pulled and sighed with relief as she lowered her arms, the torch safely in her grasp. She walked back toward the darkened doorway, not caring that the hem of her dress was attracted dirt from the floor. Extending one arm inside of the room, she peered in once again.

Pain filled her heart. The room had not changed much, spare it was much dirtier than it had been. The large, metal candleholders still sat on top of the shelf that indented the stonewall. The candles, however, were long gone, with only traces of cold wax remaining. Around the bases of the candleholders were dead, dried roses. Her eyebrows drew together, putting creases on her forehead. As Christine stepped into the room, a frown turning the corners of her lips down. A large black blanket had placed over the stain glass window. _No wonder the room is so dark_, Christine thought. With her free hand, she grabbed an edge of the blanket and pulled the blanket down. It fell to the floor, whispering as it did so.

_Oh, Christine…_

Shivers once again danced up her spine even though light flooded the room. Kicking the blanket into a corner, Christine carefully laid the torch on the edge of the stone shelf so that the end of fire hung off of the side. Its flame touched nothing, so she didn't worry about leaving it there while she looked around.

She let her fingers skim over the cold stone of the walls, her eyes drinking in every detail of the room. It had served as such a haven for her during times of pain and fear and hope. Her father's eyes had always watched over here, and in this room, she felt she was able to talk to him without having to hold anything back.

Fighting back the wave of emotion that threatened to come over her, Christine suddenly stopped. There was a ridge in the wall, making the leveling of the stone uneven. Part of the wall stuck out almost an inch more than the stone before it. Studying the ridge, she felt ice flow through her veins freely. Air came through the crack. Looking up, the crack went to a certain height above her head, and then stopped. Where it stopped, a horizontal crack continued a few feet left.

"A doorway," she laughed, though her voice was strained.

Christine's lips trembled as she let her hands slide over the wall. Her fingertips looked for a trigger that would open the door, as there was no way to pull or push it open. Though she had been able to pull the door to the chapel open, there was no way she could have found enough strength in her small body to push the stone door. However, another alternative illuminated her mind. Raoul had told her of the small, practically unnoticeable buttons that the Persian had found that had allowed them into the Phantom's lair. But suddenly she paused. Did she want to go there? Into that dungeon that held the bones of the man who had taken her soul? That held the bones of the man she had betrayed? Swallowing her doubts, she kept searching the wall.

"Oh, God," she said softly when her fingertips found it. Pushing it in, the door seemed to grumble words as it opened inward. Christine felt her heart start to pound in her chest, causing painful thuds.

_Christine… why? Why?_

She looked into the darkness and could only barely make out a descending staircase, even with the light streaming in through the large window. With her pulse beating rapidly, she hurried and pulled the door to the chapel closed, not wanting any of the men to accidentally stumble upon the secret passage. Grabbing the torch, she cautiously walked back toward the secret door. Carefully, she stepped down the stairs one at a time.

The hairs on the back of her neck started to stand up and goose bumps started crawling up her arms when the walls started to speak her name again. _Christine, Christine_, they spoke, their voices soft and dark. But something deep in her mind told her that it was not the walls speaking this time. Slowly turning around, the torch held out in front of her, Christine looked up past the stairs she had already descended, her glassy eyes focusing on the doorway. A silhouette blocked out much of the natural light that leaked in through the window. Her mouth was suddenly dry, so her attempt to speak was pointless.

"I told you once in a dream, Christine," the shadow said, its voice deep and pained. "You are not welcome here."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Just wanted to say thank you to all of you guys who have reviewed:

**Moonjava**, **Mireiyu Noir**, **Alaura Fairfield**, **Monroe-mary**, **Sue Raven**, **ModestySparrow9**, **lazy.kender19**, **Black-Caracal**, and **Morrigan le Fey**.

And a veeeery special thanks to Hilary (**lazy.kender19**), who has helped me a bit, as well as has recommended this fic to others. You guys should go read her story, _A White Mask_, if you haven't already. Especially if you are a hater of Raoul.

Again, thank you guys much.


	3. Chapter Three

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Three**

**Disclaimer: **Same as usual. _The Phantom of the Opera_ does not belong to me. It's property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* * *

"You are not welcome here."

The voice… that sweet, dark voice… sent her mind reeling; the words did not sink in, but they did not have to. What did words matter when those golden eyes were focused on her? The urge to faint attempted to overtake her, but she fought the darkness away. She couldn't find the strength to hold onto the torch, however. It slipped from her hand, crashing onto the steps. Gasping, she moved to the side, the flame of the torch just missing the hem of her skirts. The flame died out on the cold, stone steps and disappeared into the darkness.

Her body suddenly felt cold now that she did not have the light protecting her. Shivers racked through her violently, as if a cold, cold wind had swept through the air. The shadow still blocked the doorway, leaving her with no warmth and no escape. She didn't dare find her way down the steep staircase without light to guide her way.

But her mind was elsewhere; voices screamed inside her head. How? How was he alive? It couldn't be true! The papers… they had announced his death! She had seen the headline: _Erik is dead_. But yet, all reason was defied. There, standing before her, was the man who was not supposed to be living. But it had to be him! Even without light shining on her, the light from the stained-glass window reflected against his silken cape, ebony hair, and the white, porcelain mask that covered half of his face.

Pain sliced through her. Erik was dead. This could not be real.

"Is this some cruel trick of the mind?" she choked out, her voice hoarse with emotion. Tears glazed over her blue eyes and threatened to fall. "Am I being punished?"

And suddenly, the shadow came to life, a familiar sound echoing into her ears. Her heart constricted.

"You do not know the meaning of punishment," the voice snapped. "Punishment, you say? Oh, Christine." Her name was spat, as if it were a curse. "Sweet, innocent Christine… I wish you did know the meaning."

He took a few angry steps down the stairs, his golden eyes flashing as he was immersed in the darkness of the stairway. Christine squinted in the darkness, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the sudden change in light. Seeing a dark, ominous shadow in front of her, she almost stumbled backward with a cry, but a warm hand caught her wrist. She looked up, alarm running through her. His eyes were fierce and bright like the sun. The angry tears made them seem brighter. Her own eyes widened. "Erik—"

"DO NOT!" he yelled, his grip on her wrist tightening.

She cowered away from him, but that did not calm him. It made him angrier, made the red-hot pain course through his veins all the more violently. He did not want her pity. He had had enough of pity and sorrow on his behalf. He wanted rage, he wanted passion. Both which boiled in his veins as he looked at her small form. _So beautiful_, his mind said, contradicting the words he spoke next.

"You should know of punishment, Christine! It is you who deserves punishment now… but it is I… _I_ who still receive it!" She had turned her face away, so with his free hand, he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his face. Tears fell from her eyes onto his fingertips. He forced himself not to flinch.

"You are no angel," he said softly, his voice fueled with something Christine could not begin to grasp. "You are not the angel that I knew… not the angel that I _loved_." A quiet sob broke from her lips. "Angels do not haunt as you have haunted me! Demons haunt those who love them, Christine!"

His words were like a slap to the face. She wanted to turn away, but he wouldn't allow it.

"You did not come," he said softly, his grip on her loosening ever so slightly. Pain and betrayal seeped into his voice like ink on cloth. "You let some petty boy…some petty boy come between a promise… one promise I asked of you! All I asked of you when I wanted so much more from you Christine! One promise you could have kept after you left me to _rot _here!" More tears fell down her cheeks as his voice became tortured, full of emotion. "You _lied_!"

Christine felt light headed. Her body wanted to collapse, but she forced it to stay upright. Anger and betrayal coursed from his body into hers. Suddenly, some realization sparked in her mind. With her lips trembling and her eyes an angry, electric blue, she forced out the words. "You… you horrible creature!" she yelled.

Startled, Erik dropped his hand away from her wrist, and the other from her chin. Christine's hands immediately shoved against his chest in an effort to push him away from her. He was too close… too close for her to think correctly. "You stand there and scream words of betrayal to me when you have done the same! Oh, Erik!" She stared up at him with wide, electric eyes. "You lied to the world! You lied to me!" She took a careful step down to the next stair, putting some small amount of distance between them. "_Erik is dead_," she said bitterly, repeating the lines of the newspaper clipping that would still be hanging on her wall at him. Tears streamed down her face. "You are a liar."

He did flinch now. His jaw muscle twitched in bottled up emotion. "I am many things, Christine, but a liar is not one of them."

"I read the paper, Erik!" she yelled, her voice cracking. "And I assure you, I know I read the heading correctly. I would not be so stupid to mourn for two years if you had not been dead. But alas, I was stupid!" She looked up at him, locking her gaze with him. "Why would you create such a lie?"

"It was no lie, Christine," he said quietly, his voice almost quivering. "I may live physically, but I am nothing more than an empty shell."

"Erik—"

"My reasoning is none of your concern," he hissed, his anger refueling.

"It is my concern!" She scrubbed the tears from her cheeks even as more fell. "I mourned for you," she said, voice strained. "I cried. I hated myself! Over you! If I am a demon for haunting you, then you, Erik, are the Devil himself!"

"You do not know of self hatred!" Erik bellowed.

"Then you do not know of love," she replied quietly. She held up her right hand. Even in the darkness, Erik was able to make out the golden ring on her finger. His heart beat so loudly he could have sworn she heard it, as well.

"No, Christine." His voice was dark and grim. "You know nothing of love."

With her hands gripping the wall, Christine started to walk up the stairs one at a time. When she stood on the same step at Erik, she looked up at him, barely able to make out his face in the dark spare for those two golden eyes. "I came here to make things right… to finally free myself of you, something Raoul—" Erik's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name, "--said I should have been able to do when I read of your death." She gave a rueful, bitter laugh. "No wonder I could not be free of you." She kept walking upward. Her need to be in the light consumed her.

"You came here," he hissed. "I did not come for you. I have nothing to do with your freedom any longer."

"Oh, you are so naïve," she said, pausing in her trek up the steps. "I thought I was naïve, but Erik, you surpass me."

"Oh, really? And how is that so, Christine?" Erik replied, his voice sardonic and mocking.

"You took my soul," she said quietly, turning to look at him. He was amazed at how bright her eyes were. They seemed to glow in the darkness. "You consumed my soul, Erik. With every note you sang, with every confession of your heart, with every song I sang with you accompanying me… you stole it from me, and I was powerless against it." Light from the doorway haloed her, so he could tell she was shaking. "I want my soul back, Erik."

"You can have it back, Christine," he said slowly and calmly, trying to push the longing away. "But only when I get my heart back." It was his turn to start moving away from her. He descended down the steps, but stopped with a sigh when Christine voice rang out behind him.

"Why did you stage your death, Erik?" she demanded, her voice still tearful but strong.

"That is none of your concern." He kept moving down the darkened staircase.

"Damn you, Erik!" Christine screamed toward him. "Why would you do such a thing? What did you except to happen if I showed to… to bury you!"

Erik stopped, his heart slowly tearing in half. He could not stand this… not her fiery eyes in the darkness, nor the light outlining her body… not the pain that assailed her voice. "You should leave this place," he said blankly, trying to hide whatever emotions were assaulting him. _I want to go to her_, he cried into his own mind.

"I will follow you into the darkness, Erik," she threatened. "You will tell me why!"

"Because I wished to see if there was _some _chance in hell that you loved me as I loved you!" he roared. "Oh, Christine," he said, pained and full of emotion. "If you had come, I would have known that you held some sense of love for me. That the kiss you pressed upon me was more than just a figment of my imagination or more than just an action of pity. For who would take the time to journey back into the agonizing past to bury a monster?"

He stopped speaking for a minute, attempting to collect himself. Too much pain and longing was seeping into his voice. She had taken so much from him already… she did not deserve any more.

His voice was blank now. "I would have left all of my darkness to the dark and journeyed into the light where I could finally be free of this revolting self-hatred. But alas, Christine, you did not come. And I am still here." His laugh was bitter and full of shattered hopes. But suddenly his voice changed. It was calm and courteous, lacking the passionate speech that she remembered. "You should leave this place, Christine. It is haunted with ghosts of the past. A future Countess—" he spat the words, "—should not subject herself to such wreck."

"Erik, please—" Her pleading was cut short.

"Do not, Christine," he murmured. "Leave this place. You are not welcome here, nor do you wish to be here."

Footsteps marked his exit. Christine stared into the darkness, with tears she did not know she was shedding falling down her cheeks. She had wanted to come back. Did he not understand that she had wanted to return to fulfill her last promise to him? She had tried to come and bury him, to complete his last wish. What had stopped her was Raoul and his paranoid antics of locking her in the house with a butler at every door to stop her from leaving.

Her heart was beating erratically. Oh, this could not be right. This could not be true. Could it? Was it?

But she had run from Raoul now to go and find something that had been lost to her two years prior. She had needed to fulfill her promise, and here she was. She had needed to retrieve her soul, and here she was. She had come expecting to find bones, but instead she had found flesh and blood. He was alive. She had come here to fulfill her promise, and here she was. Standing at an entrance to his dark life, the one she had run from years ago.

His words rang through her mind. _If you had come, I would have known that you held some sense of love for me. _Was it true? Could it be? No, of course not. Her love, all of it, was for Raoul.

_I believe, Christine Daaé, that whatever you plan to return to has already consumed you. _Meg's words coursed through her mind. Christine slid to sit upon the first step of the staircase, thankful to the light that warmed her back.

She had come back to him… she had come back!

"Oh my God," she whispered suddenly, her hands starting to shiver again. Her body was suddenly filled with lead as realization slammed into her with brute force. With the strength she could muster, she pushed herself up and then stood. And she screamed.

"ERIK!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Eh. This chapter is a bit short, and I apologize. But I didn't want to add any other scenes, and therefore, this is it. Hopefully, you guys aren't disappointed. I'm not sure if I captured it the exact way I wanted to, but I'm not horribly upset with the chapter. Hope you all like it. Review!


	4. Chapter Four

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Four**

**Disclaimer: **Same as usual. _The Phantom of the Opera_ belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. However, this plot, as well as some new characters, belong to me. Yay.

* * *

Raoul paced across his office, unable to keep still. It had been a day since she had gone, leaving him with nothing but a note and crippling fears. He had contained himself, however. He had not acted upon his first instinct, which was to jump on his horse and ride into Paris, then drag his fiancé back to the estate. But Christine had stated her wishes for him not to follow. But God! Was she crazy? Going to Paris without him? Without telling him where she would be? 

"I cannot believe she's done this," he sighed, running his hands furiously through his hair.

"Calm down, Raoul," said the man sitting in his office chair. He was lanky, with his long legs laid out and crossed on Raoul's organized desk. He was a man of money, or so his expensive, silken clothing seemed to indicate. His hair was pale and slicked back from his face, falling to curl around his cheekbones. One eyebrow was quirked as he watched his friend's pacing with laughing brown eyes. "She wrote that she would be back, did she not?"

"But… what if something happens to her!" Raoul suddenly stopped in his step. "She is in Paris by herself, Corin!"

"From the stories you have told me, the girl is able to take care of herself. And as mentioned by your staff, she left with that the girl who came to visit her... what did you say her name was?"

"Giry. Meg Giry."

"Yes, Giry. Well… she is not alone then, is she?" Corin shrugged and put both feet on the floor. Pushing himself up, he stood and walked toward Raoul. Placing his hands on either shoulder of the shorter man, he shook him gently. His voice had dropped a pitch lower, in a manner of scolding. "You must calm down before you give yourself a heart attack. If you are really that concerned, then we shall go to Paris and find her. It will all be fine, Raoul. Trust me."

"How do you know it will be fine?" Raoul scoffed, shrugging his friend's hands away. He turned on his heels and moved to stand by the window. He braced his arms on the windowsill, staring out at the trees in the distance. "For all you know, she could have been robbed already! Or murdered! Oh, God, Christine!" He placed his head in his hands and let out a groan.

"Raoul, honestly!" the dark-eyed man snapped. Raoul turned to look at him with wide eyes. "You are acting like a fool. Collect yourself and take this like a man, not like a child."

"But, Corin… I cannot help it," Raoul said, his voice pained.

"I know, but if you wish to go to her, you cannot act like a school boy. You, Raoul, are the man. So, act like it." With a smirk, Corin grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. Gracefully, he pulled it on and straightened out his clothing. "We will leave tomorrow morning, if you wish to go."

"You don't have to accompany, Corin. I will be fine by myself," Raoul replied, turning to stare out the window again. His voice had suddenly become tired.

"I have business in Paris," Corin said with a wave of his hand. "I will be here at sun-up. We shall leave early so that you may rescue—" the word was said with slight sarcasm, but definite amusement, "—your lovely future bride from the horrors of Paris."

"The horrors of Paris," Raoul repeated softly. With a frown, clenched his fists. "I do not like her brashness, Corin."

"You're a man, Raoul. Of course you don't." Patting his friend on the back, Corin made his way to the door. "I'll be here early. See you tomorrow morn." Corin let himself out of the study, making no move to shut the door quietly; it slammed closed, marking his exit.

With a sigh, Raoul leaned forward and placed his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Strands of light brown hair fell to brush against his cheeks as he stared out the window. Corin was gracefully getting into his carriage. After a few moments, the driver snapped the reins, and the horses started to trot down the dirt road leading into the Chagny estate. The gates opened and then closed as Corin's carriage exited the property. Knowing he was now alone and without his friend's company, Raoul closed his eyes tightly, his hands slowly balling into fists once again.

"Christine," he murmured. "What do you think you are doing?"

* * *

"Oh, Madame. She is absolutely adorable. Miss, it is a pleasure to meet you." 

Meg reached across the desk and let Monsieur Delvin place a kiss on the back of her hand. She smiled at the older man. He couldn't have been much younger than her mother, but he had aged well, from what she could see. He was dressed plainly, in a charcoal suit, his full head of hair that was slicked back away from his face. Glasses slid down his nose bridge, and he looked over them with smiling green eyes. Meg was impressed by his friendliness, as well as his enthusiasm to be at the Opera House. Maybe he didn't know of the Populaire's unfortunate past?

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur. What you've done to the Opera House is absolutely wonderful," Meg said as she seated herself in a chair next to her mother. She smoothed out the creased in her dark green dress and folded her hands on her lap.

"Oh, it is nothing new. I just had my men mend all of the horrible tragedies that occurred to the montage. That fire really did ravage it." He straightened up his desk as he spoke, putting piles of paper neatly to the side. "It has taken many days past a year, but we're finally ready to start rehearsal. And Meg, I understand you will be joining us? Your mother tells me that you are an exquisite dancer."

"If it is so, I would be honored," Meg said with a smile at the compliment. "I loved doing the small dance performances in Le Théatre Rose, but I do miss the large stage and performances, with the sea of people. It would be lovely to dance here again."

Monsieur Delvin nodded. "Then we welcome you here with open arms. The opera will be _Per Sempre e un Giorno_. We will be working fast, I will confess to you now. I may be a man of friendly company, but I take my work very seriously. I wish to have the performance perfect for the stage as soon as possible. It will be hard work, but at the end, it will wonderful, I assure you.."

"_Per Sempre e un Giorno_?" Madame Giry questioned. "I have never heard of this opera before."

"That, Madam, is because it is because it is a newly written opera," Delvin said with a small smile. "It was written and sent to me when it was found that I would be purchasing and renovating the Opera House. I was blown away when I read it, and immediately decided that it would be the performance used for the Grand Opening."

"And who wrote this opera, if I may ask, Monsieur?" inquired Madame Giry, her eyebrows drawing together.

"His name is Monsieur Foncé," Delvin said with a nod. "I have yet to meet him, though I have communicated with him through mail for quite some time. He will be coming for the Grand Opening. The man is a genius, I must say. He has a creative fluency with words I have never seen before. Wait until you read the transcript, Madame. You will be blown away."

"I cannot wait to read it, Monsieur. I am sure your choice was excellent. It has been a while since I have been involved in a large scale performance, and I cannot wait until we start preparing."

"I am enthused as well. And I am very sorry, Monsieur, but I must asked to be excused for a few moments." Meg ignored the angry glare she received from her mother. "A friend of mine has accompanied me to Paris, and is wandering around the Opera House, very much by herself. She knows her way about, but I wish to make sure she is all right."

"Oh, it is quite all right, child. Who is this friend you speak of?" The older man showed no interest in who her friend was, but was only asking out of politeness.

The young woman's muscles tensed. "Christine," Meg said, trying to relax her tightening voice. "Christine Daaé."

"My God," Delvin exclaimed with a laugh, looking up at Meg. "The Miss Daaé? Who sang here when Firmin owned this place? She is here? Oh, I remember seeing her sing in _Hannibal_. She was absolutely stunning. Her voice was angelic." Monsieur Delvin raised a brow in thought. "Maybe she would like to join our cast. I would be honored to have a voice such as hers."

"I'm afraid that would be impossible," Madame Giry spoke, shooting a glance to Meg, who continued standing uncomfortably. "She is to be married this year to the Comte de Chagny. And as we know, society does not allow a woman of such high status to do something such as sing for an opera."

"That is too bad," he said with a sigh. "It would have been lovely to have her si—"

A voice cut Delvin off. The heart-wrenching scream had seemed to slide through the walls and fall upon their ears. Meg glanced around wildly, her dark eyes wide with sudden fear. Madame Giry had pushed her chair back and stood, her face turning white. She and Meg had recognized the voice with no doubt in their minds; the echo of it still floated around them like a ghost.

"ERIK!" 

Delvin blinked in confusion, slowly pushing his chair back and standing. He glanced from Meg to Madame Giry, his eyes narrowing. The two women looked like they had just seen someone rise from the dead. "What on earth was that sound?"

Madame Giry was the first to reply. She placed a hand to her chest and let out a breath. With her free hand, she fanned her face and gave a short, seemingly embarrassed laugh. Meg silently applauded her quick thinking, as she was still too stunned to react. "Oh, my. That screaming made my heart skip a beat. It sounds as if one of the men is having a problem in the Entrance Hall."

Meg swallowed the lump of fear that had formed in her throat. With a quick, clumsy curtsey, she excused herself. Her mother's calls didn't stop her as she hurried from the office toward the Entrance Hall. The men did not seem phased and were still working quite diligently. Meg tapped one man on the shoulder. He turned around with a grumble.

"May I 'elp you, Madame?"

"Yes, yes. A woman… about my age, dressed in blue. Have you seen her?"

The man scratched the back of his head, pursing his lips together as he tried to recall the described woman. "Oh, yes. She disappeared into one of the corridors a while ago. I believe it 'twas…" he glanced around, his eyebrows knitting in concentration. "That one." He pointed at the darkened hall across the Entrance Hall.

Meg stuttered her thanks, picked up her skirts and hurried through the crowd of men.

In the office of Monsieur Delvin, Madame Giry slowly lowered herself back into her seat. The Monsieur was staring at her oddly, his bushy eyebrows raised in bewilderment. Madame offered a small smile, though her wiry hands were wringing together in nervousness.

"I am sorry for my daughter's rashness, Monsieur. I assure you, she is not usually so brisk. She is quite fond of Miss. Daaé, who has had quite a past in the Opera House, and she probably wishes to make sure she is all right."

"Ah, yes. I remember. I knew there was more to the name Daaé than just her excellent performance in _Hannibal_. I remember reading of the happenings here when she performed in that… oh, what was it called? _Don _something." He scratched his beard, his eyes looking to the ceiling in thought.

"_Don Juan Triumphant_," Madame Giry supplied, trying to seem nonchalant even though her pulse was starting to quicken. The events of the past were none too happy in her mind, nor did she want to evoke the ghosts of the past. She had left Paris to let the ghosts be laid to rest, and this man was digging them up again. However, she did not let her facial expressions betray her true sentiments.

"Yes, yes. That was it. Brilliant opera, I've heard. I was not able to come to the first performance of it. And if I'm correct, it was the only performance. I do not think it has been performed since." He gave a laugh. "Maybe we shall use it later in our career."

Madame Giry curved her lips in a tight smile, nodding her head.

"Of course, that was the opera in which the chandelier crashed, wasn't it? Horrible accident. Absolutely horrid." He shook his head, and then beamed. "But alas, it's destruction had been erased, and the Paris Opera House had been brought back to life from its desolation."

_And apparently, other things have been brought back as well_, the older woman thought dismally. She had heard the named clearly. _Erik_. The named Erik had been screamed in a voice so easily identifiable as Christine's. Already omens were appearing, and she had been here for only a day.

"You have done a wonderful job in restoring its extravagance, Monsieur," Madame Giry agreed. "I am very optimistic about the Opera House's future."

"As am I, Madame. As am I." Smiling, Delvin stood and nodded his head. "Now, if you would, you may accompany in monitoring how the last details are coming along. If we are indeed on schedule, I believe we may start preparing for the first performance by next week."

Standing, Madame Giry let the Monsieur take her arm. He led her out of the office, chatting away happily about his ideas, oblivious to the fact that she was not paying attention. Once inside the Entrance Hall, Madame looked around, her dark eyes scanning for her daughter. However, neither Meg nor Christine was in sight.

Though she was once again calm, she could feel dread creeping at her heels. She prayed that tragedy would not befall the Opera House or its occupants once again.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Ah, thank you all so much for reviewing! You guys are awesome. This chapter was a bit of a bridge chapter. So boring, yes I know. There is no Erik in it, which makes me sad. But the next chapter shall be much more interesting. Again, thank you all for the reviews! Please continue to do so! It always fuels me to get chapters done! 

And also, two more little notes:  
**Note One:** I did a bit of phan art. I am purely obsessed with _Phantom of the Opera_ at this point. Anyway, it can be found at: _tinypic. com / 1dy 24x_ (Take the spaces out and the link will work. I had to put them there so it would show up.)  
**NoteTwo:** I know I've been updating like crazy this weekend, and I'm very sad to say it won't last. I get very busy with school, so updates will not be as quick. They will most likely be every 4 to 7 days. So don't kill me when periods between updates start to grow longer.


	5. Chapter Five

**Soul Consumption **

**Chapter Five**

**Disclaimer: **Same as usual. _The Phantom of the Opera_ belongs to my buddies Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. I just own random things like those uninteresting new characters and the plot.

* * *

"I invented loving you and I invented your death. I have my tricks and trap doors, too. I don't understand their workings at the present moment, but I have to be careful, I won't speak against them"

-_Title and author of story unknown_. (if anyone knows, please lemme know. Thanks.)

* * *

"Erik! Please wait!" Gulping down her fear and grabbing her skirts in one hand, Christine placed a hand against the cold stone of the wall. She shakily lowered a foot into the darkened stairway, careful to place it on the step.

She almost lost her footing when a banging erupted on the door to the chapel. The pounding was hard and loud, as if the thing doing it was suffering from an uncontrolled anxiousness. Christine placed her other foot into the darkened staircase. Night partially surrounded as she turned and stared at the door, her chest heaving. She could hear someone calling her name from the other side.

"Christine! Are you in there, Christine!"

Suddenly, the door was being pulled. It swung open with force, slamming into the wall outside, and seconds later Meg rushed into the room. She paused and stared at Christine with wide, frightful dark eyes. Her face was pale, as if she'd seen a spirit. "Christine! What on earth is going on?" She stood there, her mind processing the situation. Christine was standing in some… passageway of sorts. The light from the window just barely illuminated a staircase that lead down to darkness.

"Meg, please go back," Christine said softly, her grip on her skirt tightening. She was running out of time! She needed to go after him!

"Are you joking?" Meg said incredulously, blinking dumbly at Christine. "You plan to go down there! Christine, you have finally lost it. Come on, come with me." She held out a hand impatiently, as if talking to a child.

"Meg, please," Christine whispered, even as her hand groped aimlessly and blindly around the inside wall. Years and years of dust coated her soft fingertips.

"Do you take me for a fool? I will not just leave you here! Honestly, Christine, stop joking around." Though she tried to act light hearted, her mind was screaming for her to hurry and drag Christine out. Fear had seized her senses. She took a few steps forward.

A small, nail-sized button graced the blue-eyed woman's fingertips. Christine let out a sigh. "I will be fine, I promise you. Please, go back to your mother. Close the chapel door behind you, and do not mention this to anyone. I will find you soon. Please, Meg." With her index finger, she pushed hard on the button. Stone started to grind against stone, creaking started to grace her ears.

And the door began to shut.

"Christine! Are you insane!" Meg rushed at the door, but despite the door being made of heavy stone, it closed rather quickly. Christine disappeared behind a wall, and Meg cried out, hitting her fists against the bumpy surface. "Christine! Good God, Christine!"

* * *

Darkness. Pure, utter darkness.

No light could be seen for as long as the passageway continued down. It was just dark… dark and silent. Fear crawled up Christine's spine and she felt it shiver through her limbs. She was to go down this steep staircase, risking falling and breaking her neck. She almost laughed. They were completely insane, her actions. As she groped the wall and took another cautious step down, she swallowed her fear. This needed to be done. There was no other way.

"Erik, please," she called softly, knowing, however, that he couldn't hear her. And if he could… well, she did not think that he would be coming up to rescue her from his world of darkness. She didn't deserve his rescuing, not at this point. Part of her believed she never deserved any of the emotions the masked man had given her. He had placed her on a pedestal, and she had watched him fall without offering a hand.

It took a long time to get down the stairs, even though she was moving as fast as she possibly could in the dark. Several times, her satin shoes caused her to almost lose her balance and go tumbling down into the night, but some force helped her keep her balance. After her patience and her courage wearing thin, she pulled the shoes off of her stocking-covered feet and hurled them into the darkness.

With her chest heaving in frustration and sharp gasps of breath tearing from her lungs, Christine continued down the stairs. The stone stairs were bitterly cold against her feet, but it didn't take long before she was immune to the chill. Her body had shut down to the things that would have stopped her had she given in to the fear that was slinking around her like a serpent. She was past the point of being able to return. She couldn't have made it up the steep stairs without slipping if she had wanted to. Her only choice was to go down… to go to Erik.

She continued, one careful step after the other. Her eyes had long ago gained some adjustment to the darkness, so she could make out the very faint outline of the steps. But it felt as if the staircase would go on forever. Her legs were beginning to tire from continuous, tense movement. However, when she looked up from the staircase to squint into the darkness, it was no darkness she was met with. Firelight could be seen, only a few hundred feet down in the tunnel. With a gasping cry, she quickened her steps, almost toppling forward down the stairs.

She almost collapsed to the ground in pure relief when she stepped down onto leveled ground. Powdery, dry dirt felt cool and comfortable under her feet after the countless freezing, stone steps. However, she didn't stop to rest. She walked slowly down the new, wide corridor, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden light of the torches. A quick thought about looking for her shoes slipped into her mind, but immediately left as she kept walking.

She came to a point where the corridor opened up to a large room. In the distance, she could hear the distinct sound of lapping water. Turning around in a slow circle, Christine saw that this was something of a fork in the road. Besides the corridor she had just stepped out of, there were two others, each on either side of her tunnel. And suddenly, it all made sense. She was sure if she walked into and down the corridor to her left, it would lead to the magnificent white horse she had ridden when Erik had taken her through the mirror the first time. Which meant it would lead to her old dressing room.

Holding back the forceful wave of memories, Christine turned and walked into the large room. If she wasn't mistaken, she would end up at the lake soon. But… what then? If Erik was not there, she couldn't swim across. She had witnessed what happened when people attempted to get across his lake without his granted permission. And if he was there, who was to say he would grant her passage across. It had been clear that he had not wanted her there. He had sneered at the very sight of her face. And now, in his world, he could do what he pleased.

But that… none of that… mattered anymore.

All selfish needs were behind her, left to sit forever in the chapel. She was not doing this only for her bruised and battered conscious, or for her soul that Erik carried within him. She was doing this for Erik himself, for his bruised and battered heart. For his broken and shattered self esteem that she had helped break into millions of little pieces. There was only one monster hiding under the floors of the Opera House, and that monster was not the disfigured man who had been so passionate and moving. That monster was Christine, who though beautiful on the outside was a selfish creature on the inside.

The realizations brought angry tears to her eyes. How blind she had been! She had lied to Erik, had played with his heart for the sake of her own. And for the love of all things living, at the time, she had not even known where her heart truly lied! There was no excuse for such stupidity on her part. She had been so naïve. _And to think_, she told herself bitterly, _you were the one who told _him_ he was naïve just a little while ago_.

The sight of the dreary but shimmering lake brought her out of her own guilt-soaked thoughts. However, her eyes didn't stay on the water long. A hunched over figure, kneeling at the edge of the water, was noticeable in the light of the torches. The silken, black cape that flowed down the figure's back and onto the ground shimmered even more brightly as it shook with unknown emotions. She knew it was Erik. A small sliver of his porcelain mask was viewable to her eye.

Christine felt her heart start to slowly and painfully tear in several places. Her chest constricted as she forced herself not to cry out to him. Self-hatred coursed through her every cell. _Look what you've done!_ she screamed inside of her head, the tears in her eyes burning like acid. Devastation and the urge to go and wrap her arms around the fallen creature pushed her only a step closer, before she forced herself not to move.

But Erik had heard her soft footstep, even though she had tried to keep silent. His body froze, his spine and back muscles becoming rigid with fear and anger. _She has followed you back into this world of despair_, his mind murmured. Shaking his head as if trying to push some unwanted, compassionate thought from his mind, he ever so slowly stood. He did not turn to her, for fear that she would see the untamed emotion swirling in the golden depths of his eyes.

"Are you insane?" he hissed, his hands clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes, as if he was wishing her away. It only succeeded in freeing the tears he had stored in his eyelids.

"Maybe," Christine said softly, taking another step forward. She stopped with a quick hiss of breath when his hand came up in a motion for her to discontinue her movement forward. She looked at his back with helplessness.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he asked softly, raw passion creeping into his voice. However, that voice turned into an angry, accusing roar. "Have you not done enough, Christine!?"

Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Erik, please, just let me—"

"Just let you speak, Christine?" he said with a soft but harsh laugh. The sound made her cringe. "Then please, my dear, the floor is yours. Speak."

He turned, his face pale and his unhidden cheek streaked with a trail where tears had fallen. His eyes were torrents of the sun, bright and blinding. They made Christine want to look away. How could she stare into such raw depths without crumbling? She was already having trouble keeping herself standing after seeing Erik so broken. She hated seeing his tears.

She was silent for a few moments. How on earth could she start? How could she say what she needed to without stumbling over her words like a blubbering idiot? Catching her bottom teeth with her lips, she looked down, her mind racing. He had given her the floor, yet she couldn't find the words to portray what she felt!

"You cannot even look me in the eyes," Erik said, softly scoffing, trying to act as if it didn't cut him more. "Christine, just go back the way you came. The Phantom is dead. Let it stay that way." He turned away once again, walking to the edge of the lake. The boat, with an unlit lantern hanging from the front, rested peacefully in the water.

"Erik!" He paused. She knew it was her only chance, so she jumped in and let the words pour out, unorganized and untainted by thought. "I came here hoping to confess my heart. I did not think I would be doing so directly to you, but I guess it is better that way."

Erik didn't move, but she could tell he was getting impatient. "I was a fool," she stated softly, keeping her eyes trained on the back of his head. If he turned, she wanted him to see the unveiled truth in her eyes. "I was a complete, utter fool. I took everything you did for me for granted. When I read of your death, I was positive that is was my fault. My insolence and disregard for your love slowly ate away at you until you were nothing more than a corpse."

He did turn now, his eyes narrowed in confusion. This could not be Christine talking. Not the same Christine who had sat upon the roof, sheltered by Apollo's Lire and her lover, speaking of the hideous beast that lived in the dungeons of the Opera House. Not the Christine who had lied to him about her engagement to her lover, not the Christine who had broken her promise.

"I wanted to come, I told you that," she continued, her eyes locked on his. "I tried, but certain things held me confined in my home. I was not able to leave the boundaries of the estate, which meant I had no way to travel here, to travel to you."

"My patience grows thin, Christine," he said softly. His eyes were burning into hers.

"I needed to come here. I needed to release myself of this selfish, painful guilt that has ridden me mentally ill for two years. I needed to pour my heart out to whatever remained of you, for if I didn't, I felt that my heart would burst inside of my chest. I could not take it, Erik! I had done worse to you than was imaginable!" She stopped to catch her breath, trying to tame the pounding of her blood. "I left you alone and desolate, while I left with everything, including your heart."

She slowly lifted her right hand into view, where the golden ring still sat, perfect and shimmering in the torchlight. Erik visibly flinched. He did not wish to see that piece of pointless jewelry that once upon a time told of his relentless love for the woman standing in front of him.

"But I didn't leave you alone, Erik," she said with a pained laugh. "You stole my soul the moment you sang to me with that perfect, selfless voice. Even if I had known that it wished to stay with you for eternity, I would not have been able to stop it. That was how strong its attraction to you was." Tears filled her blue eyes. They sparkled like sapphires. "It had taken me too long to understand what I left behind in this dark place, and why."

"You left behind a broken creature for a life," Erik hissed, his heart cracked open and bleeding in his chest. He had taken a few menacing steps toward her, his eyes blazing with fervor.

"Do not put words in my mouth!" she retorted, just as fervently. Her eyes glowed like blue flames now, even as the tears tried to extinguish the raw emotion that Erik could read clearly in her eyes. He wanted to turn away from it.

"Christine, you need to leave!" he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "You need to leave and never return here! There is nothing here! This Erik you speak of has died, Christine! The headline on the paper did not lie! I told you that! Erik is no more. Why can you not see that?" His voice had descended to a low pitch, deep and withering in agony just as his soul was.

"Because I can see it in your eyes," Christine said softly, raising a hand to his face. He jerked away as if burned, his eyes wide with shock and uncovered need. She lowered her hand helplessly. "Erik…"

"He is dead," came the strangled reply. "HE IS DEAD!"

Christine studied the face of the man in front of her. The usually smooth contours were contorted into hard lines of anger and pain. Though tears still lurked in her eyes, her voice was soft and empty. Taking a few steps forward, she pulled the golden band from her finger. Before Erik could react, she grabbed his hand and placed the ring onto his palm. He immediately pulled away from her, his chest heaving as he tried to control the outburst of emotion that had racked him moments before.

"Erik, are you blind as to why I stand here? You said it yourself, upstairs, that my coming back would have meant something!" she cried out, a sob breaking through her lips. She wanted to sink to her knees; her legs felt as if they would give out under her. "I came back, Erik," she whispered, looking up at him as fresh tears slipped down her cheeks. "_I came back_."

* * *

**Author's Note:** First of all,thank you to everyone who has reviewed! I love you guys for it!

Also, quick note, so that I may explain Raoul's behavior in the first chapter. In my eyes, I portrayed him correctly. After all Erik threatened to take away from him (and what he did take away), I think it was more than enough to make Raoul so angry and possessive, though he is usually a sensitive man. After Erik almost killed Raoul, kidnapped and threatened Christine, and then killed his brother, the Comte, I would think Raoul would absolutely hate if Christine showed any guilt at the Phantom's passing, let alone any emotion toward Erik. But that's just how I think.

Again, thank you guys so much! Keep up with the reviews; they push me to write, as I know I have people to write for. If anyone wishes to talk to me on IM, the screenname is XhornsorHaloX. Until next time.


	6. Chapter Six

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Six**

**Disclaimer: **As always, I do not own _The Phantom of the Opera_. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* * *

_I came back._

Her words rang in his head like some siren's call, leading him into the dark, deep waters that he knew he would never be able to escape from. He struggled, his mind fighting against whatever was left of his heart. _I came back_. No, she couldn't mean it. Christine did not love him. Christine despised him and his hideousness. His body tensed, every nerve on edge. What was she trying to do, kill what was left of him? He had nothing left to give! Did she not see that? Erik was no more. All that remained was some shell of that beast.

He looked down at her, his mouth slightly open and the muscles around his eyes quivering as he forced them to stay open. He wanted to close them tightly, wanted to keep them closed until she disappeared. If she had never come back to the Opera House, back to the past, none of what was happening would have happened. Erik wished he could turn back time. He could not do this again. Not with her. Never with her. Losing her once had been complete and utter hell. It always surprised him, when he thought of it, that he had lived after such an ordeal. However, he knew for a fact that if he had to go through it again, he would surely die.

And he knew that in the end, it would not be him walking away from her and disappearing into the darkness. It would always be her turning from him.

Neither of them spoke. He stood there, practically motionless. She stared up at him, her eyebrows drawn tightly together. Her smooth forehead was creased with wrinkles, her lips trembling as she waited for him to make some move. But what exactly did she expect him to do? Was he to sweep her into his arms? Was he to laugh at her and disappear into the darkness?

Suddenly, she went numb. All feelings of pain, of guilt, of sorrow washed away as the calm numbness set in. How else could she possibly deal with this without leaving empty and cold? She was halfway there already, so she needed to spare whatever emotion she had so that it did not leak out of her body in the form of tears and sobs. It was apparent that though Erik still held something for her in his heart, it was locked in with dozens of padlocks and surrounded by a barrier of ice.

"I am sorry for inconveniencing you," she said, so softly that her words were almost inaudible. Her limbs felt like stone as she turned away from Erik. "I've done what I came here to do. My promise is now kept. Erik, wherever he is buried inside of you, has his heart back. The ring is back in his possession. Do with it what you will."

"And of your soul?" He could help but blurt it out. He watched her spine stiffen, her hands curl into small fists. The words seemed to hang in the air, soaking up the oxygen. The masked man held his breath.

And then, Christine's body went placid. Looking over her shoulder, she gave a rueful smile. Erik felt his heart snap. "I thought I came here to regain my soul… that was what I told myself when I left for Paris. But that was not the case, I know that now." Her smile wavered and he could see her struggling to remain in composure. "I am truly sorry for putting you through this yet again. I never should have come."

"Christine."

Christine felt her numb resolve weakening. It was the first time since she had made her presence there known that he had said her name without malice. She said his name tentatively and quietly. "Erik…?"

"Why did you come here?"

She laughed and turned around. Though her laugh had sounded genuine, her face did not show any trace of amusement. Instead, blunt seriousness made her features pale and tired. Strands of tangled brown hair fell into her face, the curls now limp from the damp underground lair. Her dress was dusty, and the hem had attracted much dirt. Erik had to urge to step forward and touch her pale cheek, but he held himself back. He wanted to hear her words, wanted to see her eyes. If what she said was true, he would be able to see it.

"I came here for Erik," she said simply, her small shoulders rising in a shrug. She tried to act as if she was unaffected by his sudden interest in her, but he could see her hands quivering.

"Damnit, Christine," he cursed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Do you want me to lie to you?" she asked. With every word, her voice became heated. "Fine. I was not here to confess my heart, for I am a cold-hearted woman! I did not come here to lay a heart to rest! I did not come here to return the promise you hold in your hand! I came here for the pure amusement of knowing that I crushed the man I loved!"

Erik flinched. He felt like he had just received a fist to the stomach. The man she loved? He must have heard wrong. Christine… no, she did not love him. How could she? His hand curled tightly around the ring resting in his palm.

Christine, however, almost burst into tears. Her barrier of numbed feelings came crashing down, unable to withstand the weight her heart was pressing against it. She hadn't thought it would last long, but there had been nothing wrong with trying. She could only be blank for so long with this man standing in front of her. Slowly, without a word, she sunk to the ground, unaware of the dirt that would serve as a second coating to her silken dress. She hung her head, curls cascading down her shoulders and over her breasts, falling into her eyes and onto her cheeks. Her cry sent Erik's mind reeling.

"I CAME BACK, ERIK!"

Her cry dissolved into sobs. Sobs transformed into gasps for air, and then back into sobs. The heart wrenching, animalistic sounds made Erik shudder from the core. His entire body quivered as he slowly knelt in front of her. Reaching out the unsteady hand that did not clasp the golden ring, he took hold of her chin with his fingertips. He lifted her face so that he could look her in the eyes. The glassy, blue skies he saw made his heart skip a beat.

"What could come of you coming back, Christine?" he said softly, a hint of the Erik who had once fallen at her feet in tears of love shining through the cold exterior. His eyes burned stars into her heart. "What could possibly happen here to soothe you? To soothe me? This is nothing for you here, Christine. _Nothing_." He had to force the words out of his lips. They were like daggers cutting his throat. _But there is nothing here for her,_ his mind murmured. _Nothing at all_.

She turned her face away from him, trying to repress the sobs. Her attempt failed. She slapped his hand away from her chin and buried her face in her hands. Erik stared at her, dumbfounded and overcome with grief. This was not the Christine who had stood up to him like a woman moments before with determination in her eyes. This was a broken child… the innocent girl who he had first seen behind the mirror of her former dressing room.

"What did you come here for?" he whispered, his voice thin with heartache. He planted his hands on the ground and leaned forward, his masked face only inches away from the hands that covered hers. "Why, Christine?"

She lifted her face from her hands and almost jumped. He was so close, with his golden eyes pulsating warming sun's rays onto her cheeks. She wanted that warmth to stay there… to not fade. She felt so cold, so desolate at that moment, and all she wanted were those sun-like, warm eyes to caress her chilled skin.

"God, Christine." He looked away, as if to taunt her. She immediately went cold. "Why did you have to come here and revive the dead?"

Her heart skipped. "Revive the dead?"

"That part of me was buried, Christine," he whispered, his voice overwrought with some emotion Christine couldn't make out. "It was gone. Disintegrated. It burned with the fire of the Opera. It was no more. And now you come here with words of amorous sentiment and drag him out of the dirt!"

"Erik…" Her hand, shivering from her violent, cold nerves, came to his unmasked. This time, he did not pull away from her. He slowly tilted his head upward, his eyes locking on hers. Wild, un-caged fear swept through him. She was pulling him down into those waters, and he had no means to fight her. He closed his eyes and nuzzled his face into her hand, while one of his own came up and laced it's fingers with her own.

"Tell me why," he murmured softly. "Tell me why." He was breaking. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to not fall, to move away from the edge of the cliff. However, his heart pulsated for her. It pulsated for the feeling of her skin touching his.

"You consumed me," she whispered. "God, Erik. You consumed all of me. And I do not know what to do."

A shiver ran through him. His hand dropped from hers; his body moved away from her feathery touch. "You need to leave."

The light in her eyes died. "What?"

"You need to leave this place," Erik responded, his voice gaining volume. He stood and turned, his feet taking him quickly toward the small boat that rested calmly in the water. He stopped and glanced behind his shoulder, the mask glinting in the torchlight. "You will soon be a Countess, Christine. This is no way for you to spend your afternoon." He felt nauseated.

"How do you know about my engagement?" she asked softly, still sitting defeated on the cold ground.

"The Comte announced it in the paper, of course," Erik said with a sneer. His voice turning contemptuous, he shrugged, though it seemed that he had the weight of the Opera House on his shoulders. "Leave, Madame. I told you before… you are not welcome here. Do not come again. Next time, Erik will be dead, and he will not come back when you speak of false assertions of love!"

He easily stepped into the boat. Ripples coursed across the smooth surface of the dark water as he moved to until the rope that had held it in place. "Take a torch, if you choose to return the way you came. Otherwise, there is the way to your former dressing room. On the right side of the wall in which the mirror sits, there is a small button that will open the mirror. Safe passage, Madame. I wish you well." He grabbed the long stick he used to steer and plunged it into the water. The boat slid away from the bank.

Christine jumped up and ran forward, until he feet touched the icy water. That, however, did not stop her. "Erik, please!"

"Christine," he strained. "I cannot do this with you once again. You surely do not wish to go through this with such a beast as myself. Please, just turn around and forget that you have seen this ghastly face once more."

"Erik, I don't care about your face!" she snapped. She was about knee deep in the lake when she stopped. Her dress soaked up the water like a sponge, making it hard for her to move. She cried out to him. "Erik, you cannot just leave—"

He didn't let her finish her statement. His angry voice cut her off. "I cannot just leave!" he snapped, his eyes vivacious with light. "You left me once in the same manner. I confessed my love to you and you turned to leave as I watched you go with tears streaking down my hideous face!" His voice cracked him emotion, his hands gripping the pole as if he would fall over without it's small amount of support. "I will not stay here and listen to your lies! I will not stay here and be made a fool of once more! Leave this place! Never come back, Christine! I do not want to see your face for a second longer!"

She said nothing more. She watched as he turned away and jabbed the pole into the sand that rested at the bottom of the lake. Soon, the boat has disappeared behind a curve, and she was left alone.

Picking up her skirts, Christine trudged through the water and towards the bank. Once there, she moved to grab a torch from the wall. Without so much as a whimper, she walked back toward the corridor that she had emerged from. Slowly and stiffly, she walked up the stairs, feeling somewhat more comforted by the warming rays of the torch that lit her way. When she had climbed to the top of the staircase, she searched the wall for a button. The door creaked open when she pressed it with a numb finger.

Meg sat against the opposite wall, staring directly at the door. When it opened, she jumped in fear, and then screamed at the sight of Christine. Christine slowly walked into the chapel, letting herself bask in the natural sunlight for a minute.

"Christine, good God! What happened to you?" She rushed toward her blue-eyed friend, eyes wide and worried. She couldn't believe how dirty Christine was, let alone that she was soaked!

"He does not love me," Christine murmured. With a sudden sob, she fell into Meg's arms, burying her face in the dry satin of her dress. Meg stroked her friend's mussed hair as the girl cried painful, shaking tears. "He does not love me!"

* * *

**Author's Note:** Blah, I know it's short. But I'm happy that I'm getting updates out as frequently. Still, don't expect it to stay that way. My work load changes from week to week

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Criticism is welcome, along with all the lovely compliments you guys give me.Are there things I can improve? I'm not quite sure that I like how this chapter came out. But eh. Lemme know! Keep reviewing! I love you guys for it!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Soul Consumption **

**Chapter Seven**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _The_ _Phantom of the Opera_. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

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And all my days are trances;  
And all my nights are dreams  
Are where thy dark eye glances,  
And where thy footstep gleams—  
In what ethereal dances,  
By what eternal steams.

-Edgar Allan Poe, _To One in Paradise

* * *

_

Christine sat in one of the empty dressing rooms, watching Madame Giry bustle around. Meg placed another blanket around her shoulders, her red lips set in a grim straight line that matched the frown on her mother's face. Neither of the women spoke, leaving Christine to drown in her own thoughts. The blue-eyed girl almost wished that they would talk or reprimand her because her thoughts were eating her away from the inside out. The pain was gnawing painfully on her heart.

She felt empty inside. Salt had been poured onto her heart, which was full of tears. Nothing had gone as she had planned. It had all broken… all of the stability had fallen apart. Erik was not supposed to be alive. He was not supposed to be the living, breathing man who had caused so much havoc in the Opera House two year before. He was supposed to be dead. And he wasn't. No matter how many time he had said that Erik no longer lived, she had seen it in his eyes. The enamored, passionate man still lingered inside the prison the Phantom had locked.

However, it was not the fact that he was alive that bothered her most. It was the earth-shattering revelation that had plagued her when she sat on the cold stair that had lead her down one of Erik's many secret passages. How had she not known something that had been in her heart for two years? How could she have overlooked the burning, powerful love that she held for the masked man who lurked in the dungeons of the Opera House?

Disgust in the form of nausea swept through her and she fought the bile rising in her throat. She had been so stupidly blind and so horribly cruel to him during those long days and endless nights at the Opera House. How? How could she have been so vindictive if her feelings for him ran so deep?

The boyish, striking face swept through her mind like a slap the face.

Raoul.

She had been having a childish love with Raoul de Chagny. She had been wrapped up in his constant words of adoration, his tears that had fallen for her. He had been so caring and so determined to find love in the blue-eyed beauty that Christine had woven her feelings into the fairy tale. She had remembered the days when she and Raoul had been children, and had played for countless hours as if they hadn't a care in the world. And as it happened, Raoul had been her Prince Charming in that fairy tale. He had saved her from the cruel hands of the beast that had taken her from him.

Christine leaned forward as her breathing became labored. She fought to keep the nausea down. Had she blocked out her feelings for Erik because of his face? The answer made her vision blur. She had. She had deserted her Angel because he had finally trusted her… he had finally put himself in her hands by showing himself to her. And she had rejected him because of the infection that plagued his face.

"I do not deserve to live," Christine gasped, her breathing now harsh and loud.

"Christine? Christine!" Meg kneeled in front of her friend, clasping the girl's hands in her own. "Oh my God, _Maman_!"

Christine's eyes fluttered closed. The last thing she saw was Madame Giry's face in front of her own, and the last thing she felt was her body crashing into Meg's arms.

* * *

Raoul de Chagny arrived in Paris the next morning, sitting in a carriage next to the silent Corin. He wrung his hands together nervously as he looked out at the people already out and about in the large city. He had visited Paris several time in the last two years, but now he held a dark loathing for the city that he had never experienced before. Christine could be anywhere. His heart jumped as he thought of the horrors that could have befallen his beautiful fiancé.

When the renovated Opera House was in view, the blue-eyed young man visibly blanched. The memories that he held of that specific building never made him feel quite settled. He could almost feel the hot rays of the African jungle on him. _But that was a long time ago_, Raoul said to himself, shaking his head. _There was no African sun. You've never even been to Africa._ With a sigh, he turned to glance at Corin.

Corin sat peacefully, his gloved hands folded in his lap. His eyes skimmed the masses of people that littered the Parisian streets. The memories of the past did not haunt Corin. He was not a man who dwelled on the pain of past events or emotions. He was a man who focused on the here and the now. Therefore, he didn't understand, nor feel a speck of, Raoul's strangling anxiety. He felt rather calm, and the carriage ride had proved quite comfortable.

"Raoul, honestly," the man said, glancing at his manicured nails with a smirk of mild amusement playing on his thin lips. "You are acting like a fool. Your woman will be fine, and then you can sleep in peace."

Raoul said nothing, but looked away. His eyes lingered on the Opera House as it faded from his view behind the curve of a street and the façade of a building.

A few minutes later, Corin and Raoul were stepping out of the black carriage and onto the cobblestone street. This part of the city reeked with expensive perfume and divine food. Women of money were dressed in fine dresses of bright colors, and their men clothed themselves in fine cotton or smooth silk. In front of the two men loomed Corin's office building, where his business was centered.

Corin was a very young, but very powerful man. He had inherited his father's millions at the age of seventeen when the man died of heart failure. With his wife long deceased and no other children to his name, the money had went to the man's only son as his will demanded. Though the other family members still living had been quite angry, no one could argue with the old man's wishes. Corin, who had always had a mind for business, had spent his money wisely, dabbling first in stocks, then shipping, then in politics. By the time he was twenty, he was one of the richest men in the city. And now, at twenty-five, he was living luxuriously as the Comte of his rather large estate.

"I only need to stop in for a moment, and then we shall go and have breakfast. After, we can look for your Christine," Corin said, walking quickly toward the large front doors of the building. As Corin was much taller, Raoul had to hurry to keep up with his long-legged strides. A man dressed in slick clothing and a hat pulled open the door with a "good morning, Monsieur".

"I'll only be a moment, Raoul. Just wait here."

Corin disappeared around a corner, and Raoul sighed, glancing around the interior of the building. It seemed comfortable enough, with plush chairs and a fireplace adorning the far side of the room while the other side was home to a desk. A man stood behind the marble desk, sorting through papers and only looking up when someone came to speak to him.

Raoul moved to the side of the room where the chairs were. He sunk down into the comfortable, feather-filled cushions, letting the tense muscles in his back loosen. He was nervous, and wanted Corin to hurry. He needed to find Christine and make sure that she was all right. Yet still, he didn't know why she had brought herself back to Paris. There was nothing in the city for her, spare some lovely stores to shop in. But if that had been the case, she would have let Raoul accompany her, not leave without so much as a warning. The contents of the letter had confused him more, as she had almost pleaded with him not to follow. That thought evoked guilt. He had disregarded her wishes, which had been plain and simply stated in her curvy penmanship. He trusted her, yes… but her actions had made a doubtful fear rise in his heart.

_Then do I trust her_? he asked himself. How could he, when she was being secretive with him? If something was wrong, surely she could tell him. He loved her more than life itself… he would do anything for her. And yet, she apparently was blind to that fact. Raoul ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He needed to find her, if only for the reason to understand why she still refused to trust in him completely.

But Christine had never trusted in him completely, he knew that. He didn't blame her, though he didn't know why she could not make some exception and trust him fully. She had been betrayed in the worst of ways… the mere thought of the man behind the mirror who had stolen her innocent mind and poisoned her heart made his hands tighten into fists. Christine had suffered so much due to the events that were caused by the obsession of the "Phantom." She had never fully recovered, even if she had ceased scolding Raoul for leaving the framed newspaper clipping in the front hall. However, he noticed that whenever he eyes wandered to it, she flinched, emotion blooming in her eyes.

He didn't understand it! He didn't understand Christine! How could she feel any compassion for the monster that had attempted to destroy what they had planned for each other? Her sentiments had obviously changed, for when he had taken her down into his lair for the first time, she had been most appalled by him. Raoul remembered the night on the roof of the Opera House, when they stood protected by Apollo. And yet, even after the ordeal he faced with the torture room, and the prospect of the death of Christine, himself, and all else who had been in the Opera House on that faithful night, she still cried for the monster! She had grieved over his death, for Heaven's sake!

"Raoul? I am quite finished here. We can go, though I do wish to make one more quick stop."

Raoul was snapped out of his thoughts by Corin's voice. He looked up and offered a smile before standing. "I hope all is well?"

"Yes, all is quite well. I dare say, I did not think it would be a good investment. But it seems that Paris is quite excited. I am rather pleased." Corin smug look and obvious lack of details caused Raoul to raise an eyebrow.

"You've told me of no investment," the young man said, following Corin out of the building. With Corin climbing into the carriage first, Raoul questioned, " Tell me, what have you put money into?"

"The renovation of the Opera House, of course," Corin scoffed.

Raoul slipped on the steps. He could feel the blood drain from his face. "Excuse me?"

Corin glanced curiously over his shoulder. "The Opera House. You did not know that I had come to terms with my uncle, and would be putting a investment into the reconstruction?"

"I… no, I did not." Raoul recollected himself and climbed into the carriage, seating himself across from Corin. "Is that where we are going?"

"Yes. Oh, come now, Raoul. Don't give me that look. We'll be there for no longer than ten minutes, I promise you. You'll be stunned, Raoul. The place looks marvelous! I must say, despite my uncle's lack of brain cells, he's done a wonderful job with the _Populaire_ so far..."

Corin continued talking about the Opera House. But Raoul wasn't listening. He was lost once again in the depth of his thoughts.

Back to the Opera House?

After the horrid past that had plagued him there?

His stomach twisted into knots. This was not how he had planned his day in Paris. He had planned to find Christine, to demand an explanation for her sudden departure, and then to take her home. And now, he was being brought back to a time that he hated coming back to. Every time Christine had mentioned _his_ name, he had felt sick, with tears stinging his eyes in the memories of the cold, dark dungeons and the hot, metallic forest.

The Opera House came into the view Raoul had out of the carriage window. His stomach dropped as they pulled to a stop in front of the monstrous yet gorgeous building. Raoul mechanically followed Corin out of the carriage and towards the large doors of the building. He felt numb. Several men greeted Corin as they traveled up the concrete steps. Raoul nodded blankly at them as a greeting, afraid that if he spoke a salutation, his voice would crack. His gaze stood on his shoes. He refused to show onlookers the untamed fear in his eyes.

Without warning, a small frame collided into his chest. Raoul almost stumbled backwards, not because of the weight, but because he was caught off guard. However, he grabbed onto the person he had run into, his hands curling over silk-covered shoulders. Muttering an apology, glanced down at the much smaller woman. Dark hair met him at first before she tilted her face upwards. The flushed face with dark eyes that glanced up at him apologetically paled when realization struck her.

"Comte de Chagny," she stuttered, her eyes wide with shock.

Raoul stared back, just as surprised. "Mademoiselle Giry."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Short chapter, yes. And sadly, another bridge. This slightly pushed the plot forward, as well as was meant to delve deeper into Raoul's character. It didn't come out quite as interesting as I had hoped… However, I do plan to get another chapter out this weekend. I want to thank you guys for all of the nice reviews, as well as the reviews with criticism. Honestly, they help me so much when I write. But again, thank you guys! Keep the reviews coming. I love you all for it. 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Eight**

**Disclaimer: **As usual, I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

* * *

"There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness."  
-Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

The violent cracking of ceramics echoed ominously through the underground lair that Erik called home. He broke anything he could get his hands on any way he was able to. Whether it be throwing a useless vase on the floor, or plowing his fist into a piece of wooden furniture, he destroyed all that was in his path.

The blood dripping from his knuckles meant nothing to him. Skin was torn and ragged, but he didn't feel the physical pain of splinters of wood lodged into the flesh of his hands. Instead, all of him was focused on the emotional agony that coursed through his body like a poison.

Christine's cries and tear-filled eyes flashed in his mind; her dirty dress and loose locks of mahogany curls; her alabaster skin and the feeling of her cool fingers pressed against his heated face. With a cry that was not human, Erik picked up the nearest piece of furniture. It was a small, wooden table, which he flung against the wall, repeatedly smashing the piece until it was nothing more than wooden confetti on the floor and stick in his bleeding hands.

He sunk to his knees, his arms hanging lifelessly at his sides, spare for the steady flow of blood coming from his knuckles and the shudders that coursed through him every so often. His head hung so low that his chin came in contact with his chest, and he could hear his heart pounding in an angry, heated rhythm. The furious music of Don Juan Triumphant came back to his brain, but he shut it out. He shut all of it out.

"GOD DAMN YOU!" he screamed, throwing his head back in wild fury and glaring at the ceiling with accusing eyes of blazing gold. When his eyes closed, tears slipped down his cheek and pooled in the crevices of the mask, but he refused to recognize their existence.

"Why have You forsaken me to Hell once more?" Erik ground out, attempting to keep the utter pain from his voice. His eyes opened, and tears spilled. "Am I so horrid a man that You must bring such pain back to my body and soul? Can You not see the suffering I have trudged through! Merciful! I have yet to taste a mere droplet of Your mercy!"

He looked down upon his hands blankly, studying each pierced piece of skin with mild amusement. The crimson liquid dripped onto the floor like tears. However, his daze was interrupted. His lips twisted into a maddened smirk at the sound of footsteps. When they stopped, a voice, soft and vexed, sounded out softly.

"Erik…"

The deformed man gave a guttural, icy laugh even as his hold on sanity started to loosen. "Daroga," he said, twisting his head to glance at the dark-skinned man who stood motionlessly behind him. "I see you have come to visit! Do you like what I have done to the place?"

"Let me fix your hands…" the green-eyed man replied, ignoring the cynicism that was drowning Erik's voice.

"I was quite ready to leave them as they are. As the infection of my face and skin has not killed me yet, I believe my best bet would to let these punctures gain infection." He chuckled, shakily getting to his feet. He stood to face the Persian. "I do not wish to live through Hell again, Daroga."

"I know you do not. And that is why you must." Grabbing the man's arm, he tugged him toward a piece of untouched furniture. Erik followed aimlessly and without complaint, which worried the Persian.

"Daroga, why do you come here?"

Erik sat down on the couch, looking much older and very tired. The skin of his face seemed to be sunken in and much too ashen, and new lines of worry and emotion were etched into his forehead and around his eyes. His eyes were now a dull, rusted yellow, and his lips were pale, a color mixed of powdered pink and faint purple.

"You forget that I am always present in this area, Erik," the man said, turning to go into another room. The faint sound of rushing water filled the silent dungeon. When he returned, he held a small bowl of steaming water and a roll of linen. "I have been in an out of the building. One such as myself knows where to listen… and I heard things that I did not think I would ever hear in this dungeon again."

Erik's eyes seemed to dull even more as they narrowed at the man with the jade-colored eyes. "And what did you hear?"

"The voice of Christine Daaé," the Persian replied without flinching. Erik's sudden quivering didn't stop him from dipping a piece of linen into the bowl of warm water, and then placing it on one of his hands. "I was quite confused when I heard her voice… but then I understood what she was doing here. I must say, I feel horrible for the girl."

"Do you now, Daroga?" Erik asked scathingly.

"Erik, this is all your own doing."

Erik's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His body tensed in restrained anger. "My doing! Please, explain how this is my doing."

"Erik, for heaven's sake, you attempted to stage your death. I even thought you were dead when I came here to find nothing! I thought you had drowned yourself or committed suicide some other way when I read the note that you left here for me." The Persian sighed and cleaned blood from Erik's hand. "_Daroga, I would like to thank you for the strange friendship you offered me in this life. I no longer require your services…_ I thought you were dead, Erik."

"I wanted to be," he said with an absent shrug. "I wished to God every minute I lay alive."

"Erik, the fact is, you were alive then. And deep down, you knew that the girl would come back eventually to keep the promise you asked of her," The Daroga murmured.

"I knew no such thing," the masked man replied softly, wincing at the hot water that stung his wounds.

The Persian nonchalantly pulled a sliver out of Erik's knuckle with a quick flick of the wrist. He smirked when the man hissed in pain. Erik was mortal; he had always known that. Yet it still surprised him sometimes. He seemed so surreal. "Erik, that girl loved you too much not to come keep her promise."

Erik's hand flew out of the dark man's grasp and plowed into his stomach. The Persian stumbled backward, the wind knocked out of him. Erik stood in front of him, his eyes blazing in renewed starlight. They were no longer dull, but scorching like flames. The Persian did not straight up from his bent over position. He stood completely still except for the struggling breath he gasped in.

"Never say such things!" Erik bellowed. "Never come into my world and speak such lies!"

"They are not lies, Erik. I have no reason to lie to you."

"SHE DOES NOT LOVE ME!"

"Then why is she here, Erik?" the green-eyed man yelled back, his usually calm exterior crumbling under Erik's fury. Erik was silent now, however. He stared down blankly at the man, his lips twitching in a scowl. The Persian slowly stood up and continued, trying to keep his voice at a soothing level. "The girl felt something for you that even she could not understand, Erik. It was in her eyes when she and de Chagny left here that night. It was in her voice when she spoke your name and called to you this day. I heard it, Erik. How could you of all men miss such blind but blatant emotion?"

"She feels nothing but repulsion for me," Erik murmured, trying to block the feel of her touch. It caused heat to streak through him. The mere thought of her touching him without reserve sent some unleashed passion through him. He fought hard to quell it.

"Then she would not have come back," the Daroga said softly.

"She came back from guilt, not from love or some feeling like it."

"Guilt that is as heavy as hers does not last this long without unprecedented reason."

"Why must you argue with me?" Erik cried. "Why must you put fabricated thoughts into my mind? I am not loved by that demon, or angel, or whatever she may be! She feels nothing but pity—" he spat the word like a curse, "—for my accursed face and my insignificant life! I am nothing to her, Daroga!"

He sat back down on the cushioned chair, his eyes glazed over with pain and confusion. The Persian didn't say another word. He only gently grabbed Erik's hand and continued to clean the bloody wounds that would add more scars to the man who was already overcome by the weight of the scars he already had.

* * *

Christine awoke, feeling groggy and drained. The faint whispers of Madame Giry floated to her ears, as did another male voice that she did not know. Suppressing a groan, Christine tried to sit up. However, a harsh throbbing in her head kept her down. She fell back onto the cushions of the couch with a hiss of breathe. The pain was so immense it made her head swim. Nothing in the room wanted to stay still when she opened her eyes, so she closed them tightly.

Her memory of what had happened was hazy. When the thoughts did start slipping back into her mind, however, she wanted to cower from them. Erik's raging face fought through her defenses and presented itself without a barrier to her mind's eye. Christine writhed on the couch, a groan escaping her lips as she clawed at her eyes, willing the face to disappear into the blackness.

"It seems she is coming to," the male voice said.

Christine felt a presence standing over her. Soft, warm hands took hold of her wrists and pulled them away from her face, resting them gently at her sides. Because she didn't know the voice or the touch of this man, she forced her eyes open. It hurt to keep them ajar in the light of the room, but she held them open long enough to take in the appearance of the man. He was short and stocky, it seemed, with fluffy white hair that reminded her of frosting. His eyes were a clear brown, his smile concerned and professional, yet friendly.

"Mademoiselle. Daaé, can you hear me?"

Christine groaned and nodded, pulling one of her arms from the man's soft grip. She draped it over her eyes, trying to shield them from the golden rays that seemed like his eyes. The light shining through the window seemed to burn her pupils.

"You fainted, Mademoiselle Daaé. You've been asleep for a good portion of the hour. How are you feeling?" The man helped her sit up, his fatherly demeanor comforting. Christine didn't object.

"I have a pain in my head, and the light hurts my eyes," Christine said weakly. She kept her arm up, even though her body felt weak and she had to expend a lot of energy to keep it up. She sighed. The blackness of unconsciousness had been so much more peaceful.

"Madame Giry, shut the curtains, if you will," the man said politely. Christine heard the faint whisper as the thick curtains were pulled over the window. "Mademoiselle, I am Doctor Eaton. It is a pleasure to meet you, though such a meeting is due to upsetting events."

Christine slowly lowered her arms, sighing in noticeable relief that the harsh daylight no longer bombarded her eyes. She gave a small, tired smile and let the doctor kiss the back of her hand.

The doctor checked her pupils, looked in her throat. He listened to her heart, made sure she was without fever. He found nothing wrong with the young woman, though. She seemed, though a bit overtired, to be in perfect health. No ailment seemed to wrack her small frame.

"I assure you, Doctor… I am just tired. It was a very early morning for me," Christine said with a smile as the doctor scratched his beard in thought.

"Do you usually faint when you are tired, Mademoiselle? It can be a sign of neurological stress, as well."

Christine laughed bitterly on the inside. _Or maybe it's from the utter revulsion I feel toward myself_, she thought with a grimace. But she could not tell the doctor that. She could not even tell her best friend. How would even Meg react to her reason for returning to the Opera House? She would stare at her friend dumbly, no doubt.

"Well, I do believe you need to rest, my dear. There are dark circles starting to plague the area under your eyes. And you are too fine skinned and pretty to have such a thing mar your face," the doctor smiled, nodding at Christine as he gathered up his supplied.

Christine was almost crying inside her mind. _I cannot have marks of tiredness mar my face?_ she question herself, guilt and need leaping into her heart. _I deserve it and more to mar me! If only you knew!_ She didn't cry this out loud… the last thing she needed was for the doctor to see her as mad.

Christine suddenly glanced at the door, all eyes following suit. Meg's shriek could be heard down the hall, her high-pitched voice calling for someone to stop. Christine blinked in confusion at Meg's words and the demanding yet fearful tone of her voice. And then, she wondered what had kept her friend. She had run out to get some new clothing for Christine, whose own clothing was ruined by the water and dirt that clung to it and seeped into the threads. The shop, however, had been across the street, and Meg had taken much too long.

However, Christine understood when the door to the room opened, slamming against the inside wall; a loud 'smack' echoed through the silent room. Raoul, Comte de Chagny stood in the doorway, his eyes immediately finding Christine, whose mouth fell open into a small 'o' of shock. A tall man stood behind him, and on the other side was Meg, whose dark eyes shot sorrowful glances at the pale Christine.

"Christine!"

"Raoul," she choked out, though her tongue had wished to call out another name. Blackness lapped at the edges of her vision againand she forced herself to stay conscious.

Her mind still called to him. _Erik!_

* * *

Somewhere under the Opera House, the masked man could have sworn an angel was whispering his name.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I know I promised to have this out this weekend, but stuff came up. Anyway, here it is. Hope you guys like it. Thanks so much for the reviews!

* * *


	9. Chapter Nine

**Soul Consumption **

**Chapter Nine**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Phantom of the Opera_. Etc, etc. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Weber. Etc, etc.

**Author's Note:** So sorry this took so long to get up… hectic last week, which left me with little time to write. I want to thank you guys who still read, and for all the lovely reviews. You all are amazing.

* * *

"Pray that your loneliness may spin you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."  
-Dag Hammarskjold

* * *

"Christine! My God, what happened to you?" Instantly, the young Comte was kneeling next to the couch where Christine sat. His hands, quivering in relief and concern, clasped one of her own as he gazed into her blue eyes; confusion bombarded him when she did not return the look of happiness at his presence. Her eyes shown with some diluted form of contempt, as if she were accusing him of some betraying deed. "Christine?"

"Raoul, I asked you not to follow me," she said softly, finally finding words even though her throat was parched. Her voice sounded hoarse and strained, and she knew that the entire room probably heard her heart pounding and her blood pumping.

"But Christine, you left without so much as a notice! I had to come make sure you were all right… and apparently, I came right in time. You look absolutely horrid! What on earth happened?" He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her hand; her skin was cold.

"She just had a small tired spell, is all," Madame Giry supplied. Both Raoul and Christine turned to glance at her. Christine saw the woman's quizzical dark stare that was aimed in her direction alone; she completely ignored Raoul's confused blinking.

_She knows_, Christine thought dismally. _Oh Lord, she knows._

"She will be just fine," the older woman said, nodding sharply. Christine looked away from her.

Raoul turned to look at Christine, his eyebrows creased. "Christine?" he whispered, his voice strained. "Why did you come back to this place?"

Christine raised her gaze to his but said nothing. Everyone in the room watched in curiosity as Christine pursed her lips, refusing to speak. Raoul felt something inside of him snap. He wasn't sure if it was his heart or his trust. Maybe it was both. "Christine?"

"Raoul, I asked you not to follow me," Christine said blandly, repeating what she had said minutes before. She suddenly felt very weary and wished that Raoul and everyone else would leave her alone so that she could sleep.

"I had no choice, Christine," he replied, looking into her eyes pleadingly. "You just… you just left!"

"For good reason."

"One that you did not tell me."

"And I do not plan on telling you," Christine scoffed, slightly irritated.

Raoul's eyes widened in hurt and surprise. "What?"

"You really shouldn't have come here, Raoul." Christine shook his hands away from her own, scared he would feel the pounding pulse in her fingers. Guilt, though that of a different kind, welled inside of her heart. What was she doing? Raoul did not deserve the pain she was destined to bring to him. "Go back to the estate, Raoul…"

"I will not leave you here!" he suddenly exclaimed, his voice raising to a pitch much out of his character. His eyes were blazing blue, and for a moment, Christine wished they were golden.

"Raoul, please," she whispered softly.

He shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was sharp, leaving no room for argument. "We are going back to the estate together. I refuse to leave you here in this place, Christine. I do not know why you chose to come back to this hellish edifice, or what is going through your mind. But I fear for your safety, and I will not leave you here!"

Everyone, including Corin, stared at the young Comte with surprise. His voice was laced with annoyance, and under that, a hint of anger that was very much unlike him. A man of dominance and demand had replaced the concerned, compassionate young man, though only for a moment.

Christine only sighed, unfazed by his sudden outburst. She had spent the morning under heavy weight of the harsh, accusing words of Erik. Nothing Raoul said could make her skin crawl with fear. "I will not go back with you today, Raoul…"

He stared down at her incredulously. "You dare disobey me?"

"You're not my keeper…" She looked up at him with sad eyes.

"I am your fiancé!" Raoul cried, an edge coming into his voice. Christine winced at the desperation that drowned him and rung like bells. His eyes changed from domineering to pleading as he tried to understand. What could be so important that she refused to be with him? That she demanded his company not exist while she went through whatever it was that she was hiding?

"I need to go…" Christine slowly eased herself off of the couch, still slightly weak. However, she didn't think twice about pushing past Raoul. If she stood there with his presence drowning her for another moment, she would tell him what she had come there for, and what she had been met with. That, she feared, would only lead to tears and possibly worse.

"And where do you plan to go?" Raoul snapped, his control slowly waning. He felt pure animal instinct rising in him and the sensitive nature of his spoiled upbringing vanishing, all over this woman and her petty excuses.

Christine did not look back at him. She walked, smiling weakly and giving Corin a nod when he quickly moved out of her way. With small, but quick steps, she hurried down the hall.

Two voices mingled at once as she quickened her pace, not quite sure where she was going. One was deep and melodious, full of pain and confusion; it grabbed her and pulled her toward it, and she fought not to stray even though she wanted to with all of her being. The other was shrill and angry, confused as well, but much less beautiful and more so boyish; she had the urge to run from it and not look back.

"Christine!" Raoul called loudly after her in uncertainty and sudden fear. His footsteps sounded behind her faintly, and Christine picked up her dirtied skirts, ready to run. She still felt weak, but that didn't stop her movements from quickening. She couldn't see Raoul right now, for if she did, the events of the morning would spill from her lips like water from a fountain. She wouldn't be able to contain the guilt of betrayal and the love for the masked man in one body. And as Erik would not except her love, the guilt would be the first to leave her.

_Christine!_ the other voice bellowed in longing, the sweet syllables of her name rumbling through the walls like lightning.

It was that one word, her name, coming from his lips with such need that caused her to suddenly turn into a smaller corridor before reaching the Entrance Hall. The corridor itself wasn't even really a corridor, but more of a pathway that lead to a timeworn door. Hoping the door was open, Christine pulled on the handle, but the door held shut. As Raoul's calls and footsteps became more prominent to her ears, Christine pressed herself back into a corner, hoping the shadows would prove sufficient cover for her.

She saw Raoul pass by in a blur.

Relief coursed through her entire body.

Pushing away from the wall, Christine pulled at the doorknob that separated her from a room that most likely was home to one of Erik's trap doors. Every room, she thought with a small smirk, had a door for Erik's convenience. Her hands were no longer shaking with edgy quickness and the weakness that had plagued her body a few moments before had seemed to dilute with the thought of descending once more into Erik's home. She easily was able to get a good hold on the handle. With one hard tug, the door opened, and Christine hurried inside, closing the door behind her.

The room was dark, spare for two small torches that sat high on the walls, blinking light across the tiny room. It was only a few feet long by a few feet wide, and tools and random objects used for cleaning occupied a good portion of it.

Christine wasted no time in letting her hands roam over the cold walls of the room. Her fingers frantically searched for the button that would give her passage to Erik.

She didn't know how much time went by before her fingers fell upon an almost unnoticeable difference in stone. Tears had started to form in her eyes against her will as frustration taunted her. With a tortured sigh, she frantically ran her fingers around the area, searching for the small, nail-sized button that would make the stone crack open.

When she found the small button, she pushed it. The stone started to creak and she clasped her hands together, saying a silent prayer of thanks. Hurrying toward a wall that donned a torch, she stood on her tiptoes and grabbed it from the metal holder. Unlike last time, no fear of the dark staircase troubled her. With renewed hope, Christine stepped into the stairwell. She pressed the button, and the stone enclosed her.

The darkness was cold, but beautiful. Much like Erik. Christine's throat suddenly throbbed with the urge to sing, which surprised her. She hadn't sung since her days in the Opera House, specifically the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_. Sometimes Raoul has asked her to sing, but she had adamantly refused, as the notes of her voice sounded empty.

But back then she had lost what had made her want to sing. Her soul had been buried inside of a man she had convinced herself to fear, leaving her with no reason to create such melodious sounds. Now, she refused to leave the Opera House without that motivation that had once made her voice so angelic and beautiful. She refused to leave without his voice caressing her and pulling her in. The sudden ache to hear Erik's voice pulsed through her. She didn't understand it, nor did she care.

She started to sing softly at first, a small lullaby she remembered her father singing to her when she was a small child and afraid of the dark. The words fit surprising well to her feelings, which made a smile creep onto her lips. And it felt so good to have her vocal chords stretch and shudder as she lifted her voice! It had been too long since she had taken the freedom to exercise her voice.

Christine descended down the stairs casually, lost in the reverie of music that had been absent from her life for far too long. It didn't even cross her mind that her voice would attract _him_ like a flame did a moth.

* * *

Erik sat in front of the fireplace, his eyes locked on the flames that leapt and danced to some unheard rhythm. Besides the random crackling of the fire, the only other sound was that of the bustling Daroga, who busied himself by cleaning up the mess Erik had made of his palace. Shards of glass and wood littered the floor as if a tornado had swept through.

Erik tore his eyes from the fire to glance down at his bandaged hands. The wounds were starting to throb now that the initial adrenaline had faded out of his body. Soon, they would be horribly sore, and Erik would grow horribly frustrated. Or more frustrated than he already was, anyway. But then again, he rarely needed his hands for a specific purpose, spare he decided to spontaneously build a contraption. He rarely played the organ these days, unless he was for some reason inspired to write a piece of music. But nonetheless, he healed rather quickly, despite the infection that raided his body.

His throat felt dry and scratchy from the yell he had released a while before. He had been sitting in the exact same spot, with the Daroga cleaning dutifully, when he had suddenly slammed his fists against the floor in front of him and screamed.

_Christine!_

The Daroga had frozen, and Erik had fought for breath, as his throat seemed to constrict on him. He didn't have a clue where the sudden exclamation had stemmed from; the urge to call to her had just boiled inside of him until he could hold it down no longer. Slowly, he had calmed his racing pulse and sat frozen, his eyes locked on the dancing fire. He disregarded the Daroga's stare that was eating holes into his back, refusing to speak to the dark-skinned man. His friend had already said enough to torture him. Words would only serve to stab his black heart even more.

And now, he still sat in front of the fire, his face blank and his body lax.

However, the muscles in his back and shoulders started to tense when a melody reached his ears. With lightning-quick speed, he was on his feet, glancing around. The Daroga had paused as well, blinking in confusion and looking about the room. When his eyes fell on Erik, he saw the masked man staring at the doorway that lead towards the lake with wide, unseeing eyes. When he concentrated, the Persian man could tell that's where the beatific music was lingering.

One word from Erik's lips had the jade-eyed man understanding.

"Christine…"


	10. Chapter Ten

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Ten**

**Disclaimer: **Same as always. I don't own _the Phantom of the Opera_. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also, I've been introduced to the wonders of Susan Kay's _Phantom_, so you might see a few interactions between Erik and the Daroga that reflect her book.

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much to you guys who still review! You're all awesome!

* * *

Erik felt the sweet notes pull at his heartstrings. His entire body started to throb to the soft, sweet melody that echoed through the otherwise silent chamber. How in God's name had she found another way down into the darkness of his life? Had he not told her to leave, that he didn't want to see her? His blood was blazing, either way. As if he could not control himself, he started to walk toward the door that would lead him to the lake.

"Erik."

The Daroga's voice snapped him from the spell her voice had weaved over him. He glanced back at the man, his face strained.

"Daroga…"

"Some things cannot be denied," the dark skinned man said with a soft nod. "Not even you can push certain things into disappearance, Erik. You are a magician, but this is not a toy you can manipulate."

Erik closed his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. "This will kill me, Daroga. I cannot do this again," he murmured softly, keeping his eyes closed. He did not like the rueful smile that quirked the man's lips.

"If you think, Erik, that this potential dream will burst into flames, give me the word. I will go to the lake and take her back to her fiancé myself. I will find a way to seal up the doors, if you so wish it."

"Why?" the masked man asked softly. "Why would you do such things for me?"

"I feel, for some reason, that I owe you as much, my warped friend," the Daroga said gravely. "So, you are free to tell me what you wish for me to do…"

Erik opened his eyes. The Persian was reminded of the bright, desert sun looking upon him. "Please go to the lake and bring her here."

* * *

Corin stood in the hall, staring at the short corridor that lead to some room he did not wish to enter. The hallway seemed old and dusty, and that did not mix with the expensive clothing that adorned his lithe frame. He could only imagine how horrid the room beyond the hallway was. Call him self-centered and spoiled, and the young man would most likely agree. He did not want to change walking into a spider's web. The soon to be Countess de Chagny, however, seemed to have had no qualms about entering when she hurriedly pulled open the door and stepped inside.

He had seen her only by chance. A blur of blue had caught his eye, and he had turned just in time to watch the girl disappear behind the old wooden door. He doubted she had saw him… she hadn't seemed like she was paying attention to anything but getting inside the room and keeping away from Raoul.

_Oh, Raoul_, Corin thought with a sigh. _Games are being played, and you, a pawn, know absolutely nothing… or maybe you know everything, but wish to know nothing…_

He could hear Raoul's faint, frantic calls to the girl who would not answer him. He almost laughed at the irony. Part of him wished to call his friend, to tell him where the girl had disappeared. However, he stood where he was. It was not his place to get involved. Apparently, the girl had some other qualms she wished to settle. And she wished for Raoul to be as far away as possible.

The small, dark haired girl from earlier was hurrying past, her head bowed. Corin immediately reached out to grab her arm. The girl literally squeaked, bringing a dark gaze up to the young man.

"Mademoiselle Giry, was it?" he asked politely, slowly releasing her arm when he believed she would stay.

Meg blinked, nodding. "Yes. But I don't believe I caught your name, Monsieur."

"My name is Comte Corin Delvin," he said with a nod. The small startled stare the girl directed at him didn't escape his eye.

"You are related to Monsieur Delvin?"

"I am his nephew," Corin said with slight bitterness. He and his uncle did not get along well; it was a proven fact. Though no one knew it. Being as well known as he was, something petty like a ongoing hatred of his uncle would spark rumors that Corin didn't want to deal with. He could be patient, but the wagging tongue of society always made him angered. "I am also a partner in the rebuilding of the Opera House. I assume you are working here?"

"I am one of the dancers," Meg said with a testy smile.

"I see…" Corin smiled brightly, flashing white teeth at the girl. He wanted information… it would be easy to charm it out of this one. "Tell me, does anything lay behind these walls?"

He could have sworn the girl went a shade whiter. Her eyes shown like puddles of black ink. "I do not know, Monsieur."

"But Mademoiselle, you worked here before, did you not? And from what I know, you had been here a long time, with your mother." The girl seemed to grow paler under his probing stare. _I'm being careless_, Corin thought, cursing himself.

"I see you know more than you first let on, Monsieur," Meg stammered, her hands wringing together.

"There is something you know, as well," Corin said with a smirk. Meg looked away.

"What I know is none of your business, Monsieur." The girl seemed to gain some bravery under the burning eyes of the towering young man. When she looked up at him again, her eyebrows were drawn together in indignation. "And I can assure you, I do not know much. What is beyond these walls is a basement, and that is all. If you wish to travel down there, attempt to do so. I would not. Rats litter the pathways."

"I have heard stories," Corin said, one eyebrow arching as he ignored the tone of the girl, "of a man who dwelt in the dungeons of the Opera House… and that Mademoiselle Daaé, as well as Comte de Chagny, were involved in some scandal a few years ago. This is true?"

"Those stories of the past have been long dead," Meg said testily. The sudden white pallor of her skin and the uncomfortable twinkle in her eye, however, betrayed her steady voice.

Corin was about to speak again, but an older woman stepped between him and the young Giry girl. He recognized a likeness in the two women, and guessed that this was the girl's mother. A protective, precautious aura surrounded the older woman. Her voice was sharp and quaint. "Monsieur, is there something you need?"

"No, Madame," Corin said brightly, though his mind was turning in thought. "I believe I know all that I need to know. Good day, Madame. Mademoiselle." With a bow, Corin turned and walked with long strides into the Entrance Hall.

* * *

The Daroga stood at the edge of the lake, staring across into the blackness that mingled with torch light on the gray water. The harmonic singing was even more beautiful now that walls did not filter it. He could only guess that Christine was close to the lake… he didn't know what she planned to do when she got there, so he stepped into the small boat and pushed off with the stick.

The sound grew louder, and if he hadn't been so clear headed, the Persian knew he would have been caught in the web that the music spun. He could only imagine what would happen when Erik came face to face to the girl after the lovely notes sprung from her.

Christine was just entering onto the bank of the lake from one of the tunnels when she came into the Daroga's view. When Christine noticed the boat, her singing stopped. Hope brightened her face for a mere moment before she realized that it was not Erik who steered across the water. The Daroga could see her body tense in the torchlight.

He wondered how Erik had reacted, now that the singing had stopped….

"Mademoiselle Daaé?" he said softly, nodding his head as the tip of the boat bumped quietly into the bank.

"I remember you," Christine replied, her voice quite and thoughtful. "You were there… that night… you were with Raoul…"

He gave a small smile. "Yes, that was I."

Suddenly, her eyes widened and her hands curled into tight fists. The Daroga was startled by the sudden fear that leaped into the endless blue depths of her eyes. With lips that wished to tremble, she asked, "And why do you return here?"

"I have always been around here, Mademoiselle," he said kindly, finally understanding her sudden apprehension. "I am no enemy of Erik on this night. You've no need to fear his safety concerning me. He is my friend, though our friendship is one that is constantly strained to a breaking point. I mean no harm. I am merely here, as I sensed trouble brewing with your return."

Christine flushed. "I… I did not come here with that as my objective."

"I know," the Persian said softly. "However, things have been conjured, and they must be laid to rest. He wishes to see you. I am to take you to him."

Christine's heart did a jump inside of her chest. "He wishes to see me?"

The Daroga nodded. Without another question, Christine scrambled clumsily into the boat. The ride on the lake was silent, as neither spoke. The Daroga busied himself with gliding the boat across the water. Christine stared nervously into the dark depths of the lake, her thoughts working overtime.

Erik wanted to see her.

She could only guess that he heard her sing and knew she was coming, hence why the Persian had been there to meet her. But why would he suddenly welcome her to his home without protest? He had made it clear a while before that he did not want her there. Actually, he had been quite resolute that she never step foot in his world of darkness ever again. And now, she was going to see him once again. She would be able to drown in the eyes that seemed to be blessed by Apollo himself.

When the boat hit the opposite bank, Christine was jarred from her thoughts. Without a word, the Persian helped her out of the boat. However, he did something she did not expect him to do: he got back on. Christine gave him a questioning glance, her eyebrows drawn together.

The man's smile was soft and calm. "This is not my affair. I will let you and him settle this between yourselves, without my prying ear. Tell him I will be back later this night… I believe I will need to keep my eyes open on the floor above, as much commotion may start more trouble."

"You are too kind, sir," Christine said sincerely, her smile small but effective. "Thank you."

"No, Mademoiselle… thank you." With a bow, the man pushed off of the bank once again. Christine watched as he and the boat became smaller, until he disappeared around a corner.

Taking a deep breath, she turned and started walking toward the underground mansion that was Erik's home. She walked through a pair of familiar large, open doors. Behind them lay a lavishly furnished room that was in tatters. Pieces of wood, glass, and ceramics were strewn across the floor in angry patters. Christine stared in slight horror. What had happened!

Swallowing the dread that crawled up her throat, she walked through the room, being careful not to step on a shard. Her feet were still bare, as she had not found her shoes and had not been supplied with a new pair.

Erik was nowhere in sight. The room was empty and motionless, spare for a fire that lit up the hearth. It was dying slowly, and black smoke was starting to dance in the air like fairy dust.

With a shuddering breath, she continued on into the next room. She remembered it well: the music room, Erik's most cherished quarter. It was there that his prized organ sat in all of its glory, along with various other instruments that Erik did not cherish half as much. Plush chairs of red velvet sat comfortably next to a fireplace that didn't house a fire. Paintings covered the walls. Candles lit the room, causing an eerie glow to cast shadows around the room. She had sung duets with him in that very room, and it seemed like so long ago that she had mingled her voice with the beautiful music he could create. A voice in the back of her head whispered that he would be there…

And of course, he was.

He sat at the organ with his back to her. Christine was reminded of her dream, even though Erik was not losing himself in the music. His clothing seemed wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his body tense. It was so unlike the clean, crisp Erik she remembered from those hellish days and nights. She didn't try to silence her footsteps… she wanted him to know that she was there, that she had come back.

_I've come back twice_, she told him in her mind. _You cannot deny it, Erik… please don't deny it…_

"Christine."

A delicious shiver snaked up her spine at the sound of her name coming from his lips. His voice was low and dangerous,and ever so drugging.Christine took a step forward, drawn to the angelic voice that spoke her name. "Erik…"

Her eyes widened when he placed his hands, the bandages tainted pink with blood, onto the keys of the organ. Even as her mind raced with concern at his wounds, she said nothing more. He still did not look at her. Instead, he bowed his head and he pressed one key. A deep note echoed forth, wrapping them both in a cocoon.

There was no going back this time.

His voice was soft and caressing. "Sing with me, Christine."

No… there would be no going back…


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Soul Consumption**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Disclaimer: **Same as always. I don't own _the Phantom of the Opera_. It belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Also, I've been introduced to the wonders of Susan Kay's _Phantom_, so you might see a few things from there (especially dealing with how she ended Erik and Christine's relationship).

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a lot more… sensual than those before it. Nothing major. Just a warning. Christine-Erik sexual tension. O.o;;

* * *

The notes that drifted from the organ made Christine's head spin. She felt like she was being drugged and had to force her eyes open so that she was pulled to her knees by the beautiful music. She had always been lulled by the beautiful music the disfigured man could create… anyone would have been. But she knew that only she was affected in this way, that she was the only one had the urge to cry out from pure passion. Yes, Erik's music affected most people, man and woman, alike. But it affected them with a need to obey. It affected Christine with a need to embrace. She yearned to reach out and touch him.

Slowly, the music turned angry, and with a sudden wave of dread, Christine recognized the music all to clearly. It was ironic that the music seemed to fit her feelings so well. _The Point of No Return._ It was all to true, and Erik knew it. She had come back a second time, even after he demanded that she not step foot in world once again. She had disobeyed… and this was the price she had to pay. The sensual, passionate ballad that stemmed from the angry notes sent shivers through her body and she had to clench her teeth to stop from murmuring his name.

Erik took his key. He sung softly at first, his voice ever so slowly growing in passion and volume. His head swayed to the sound that pounded out of the organ, his voice growing deep with emotion. Christine swayed on her feet as well. His web had been spun, and she knew that she was now deliciously stuck there.

When Christine started to sing her piece, Erik's body, spare his hands, had gone completely still. He did not rock with the rhythm any longer, only sat, listening and playing. Toward the end, as her chest rose with her voice in a long-held note, the music stopped all together. Christine whispered the last phrase, "_We've past the point of no return…"_ and then stumbled back on an oath when she realized Erik now stood in front of her.

Neither of them spoke. Erik stared down at her, his eyes blazing bright in the dim candlelight of the room. His hands clenched and unclenched as the urge to draw her to him became almost unbearable. Christine stared up at him, her own eyes half-lidded, the music still drumming through her veins like morphine.

It was Christine who took a step forward. Her body was no more than an inch from his now; Erik could feel the heat radiating from her small frame. She raised one hand and let it trail up his arm. When it reached the bare skin of his neck, his muscles tightened as he tried to control himself. This was no longer a need of comfort from the girl… it was pure need, pure want. Her skin, so warm and soothing, against his own chilled flesh was like being burned with a hot poker.

"Christine," he was able to rasp.

"Shhh," she murmured, her voice almost inaudible despite the thick silence that had settled across the room. Her fingers moved to dance across the ceramic white mask that shielded his face from degrading eyes.

When her hand slid to the back of his head where nearly invisible strings held the mask upon his head, Erik felt his stomach muscles tighten in fear. With one quick tug of the strings, the mask tumbled away from his face and to their feet. Erik closed his eyes. He did not want to see the renewed disgust play on her beautiful face… he did not want to see the regret in her eyes. _How could I have even thought I loved this monster?_ she would ask herself before stepping away from him.

Erik felt soft flutters across his skin, as if butterflies were letting their wings stroke his face to calm him. His chest heaved as they flicked over his malformed lips, his closed eyelids, and his sunken cheeks. But he soon realized that butterflies were not touching him. No… it was not butterflies that soothed his soul.

It was Christine.

He slowly opened his eyes. Christine still stood there, her body practically pressed against the length of his. Her hand was still raised, hovering over his right cheek. When his gaze caught hers, her hand moved to press against the chilled skin. She looked upon him without regret, without disgust. Only with mild curiosity mixed with burning passion and emotions that swam in her eyes like sirens.

"Oh, Christine…"

"I made the mistake of leaving you once, Erik," she said quietly. "I did not want to… I was finally ready to stay. But you told me to go, and Raoul was pulling me toward the boat that would take me away from you…" Her voice cracked and she looked away as she continued speaking. "I won't make that mistake again. The Persian has taken the boat, and Raoul is not here to pull me along…"

Silence set forth once again until Christine broke it. She looked up at him, her blue eyes suspiciously bright and determined. "You will not tell me to go this time, Erik. I won't let you."

"Christine," he said, voice pained. His eyes were clouded. Her soft skin touching his was driving him mad! "There is nothing for you here."

"Oh, Erik," she said with a soft laugh. "You are here."

"I am nothing." The words slashed through him like a well-sharpened knife. The truth in them rang clear, like breaking crystal.

"I went mad without you," she whispered, as if afraid someone would hear. "I went absolutely mad knowing that it was my fault you were dead. I was distant from Raoul, who only tried to love me. I kept away from my maids' prying ears and gossip of my condition. I sat alone in that God blessed house, willing myself to do something to keep my promise to you. But I was held there with stone, and I could not move. I could not move, Erik. I was a prisoner in my own home!" She stopped suddenly, her breathing labored.

When she continued, Erik could feel his heart breaking at the anguish that poisoned her beautiful voice. "I dreamt of your every night… I saw you here, in my dreams, playing that infernal music that beat my senses bloody and made my blood course like a stream. And I went mad with guilt, with pain, with love that I did not understand! Oh, God, Erik!"

She moved to turn away, but his touch stopped her. His hand, graceful and long, came to rest over hers. She looked up at him with tearful eyes, his heart starting to pound in painful need and pleasure as his long fingers slid in between her own.

Erik brought his other hand slowly to her face. He did not touch at first. He let his hand linger in the thick air, scared that if he touched her, she would come to her senses and flee. The fact that his mask still laid untouched on the floor amazed him. After seeing her still standing before him without that ugly disgust in her eyes, all thoughts of returning the mask to his face as quickly as possible vanished. Swallowing the fear, he touched her face. His fingers caressed skin and intertwined with the tangled locks of her hair. His thumb brushed against her trembling lips.

He felt heat wash through him as Christine turned her face against his hand. Her lips pressed against his palm. Her hand had dropped from his face and now hung at her side, though she had refused to let Erik's other hand go. Her fingers were laced tightly with his, as if she were scared he would attempt to free himself if her grip became too lax.

"Christine…" He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. The closeness of their faces had them gazing into each other's eyes. "Oh, Christine…"

When her head tilted back and she brushed her lips against his pale forehead, all was lost. Pulling her to him so that their bodies seemed to mold together into one, he no longer was afraid of her rejection. He did not see rejection in her eyes or her movements. He did not think of the times before when she had lied to him and tried to trick him using his own love against him. But now, such things could not blind him.

Erik's experience with woman was limited. However, his feral instincts caused his to slide his hand into the mass of dark curls. Taking a handful, he pulled Christine's head back farther. His mouth came down on hers softly, but behind the gentle show of affection, passion throbbed, and neither could deny it any longer.

* * *

The Persian didn't expect to come face to face with a man when he slipped out from one of the secret passages. However, things were never as they seemed they would be in his cursed place. He knew that now.

He hadn't been cautious of his entrance… no one cared about the basement of the Opera House. He'd heard the workers talking amongst themselves. The basement was dirty and frightening, and they didn't want to have to do more work than was needed. And anyway, the fire had never reached below to the cellars, so there was no need. However, the Daroga's carelessness brought him to a tense moment. He stood there, frozen in mid-step from coming out of a passageway, staring into the cold eyes of a nicely dressed man. Neither spoke. Both stood rigidly, debating what their next move was to be.

The corridor he'd chosen to take was a small one that was right off of the Entrance Hall. As the floor was so crowded, the Daroga hadn't thought that anyone would notice him. However, he'd frozen in fright as he stepped from the doorway. A man already occupied the corridor, and when the secret doorway creaked as the stone shifted, he turned around with narrowed eyes.

That left them in their current predicament.

The thought to swiftly press the small button and return down the passageway, it disappeared just as fast. This man did not look like the stupid type. Cold intelligence lingered in his dark eyes. The Persian man was not one to go by first impressions; he'd met many people, Erik included, that had tossed his first impression out the window. But at this point, he had no choice. He couldn't chance the man somehow finding the small nail-sized button that would allow him down into Erik's lair.

"Well friend," the man said, putting his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. "We are indeed in a dilemma."

"We are," the Persian replied. He smirked when the man raised a brow, most likely at his accented French. "The question is, what on earth should we do about it?"

The man tilted his head, quite amused. The Daroga recognized the look: it was one he'd seen on Erik's face many a time, though the one on this aristocrat's face was much less severe. It was the look a cat had right before it pounced a mouse.

"Well… I can politely ask why on earth you are coming out of a dook that is meant to be hidden," he offered with a shrug.

"And I can politely decline to answer."

Dark eyes flashed with a hint of impatience, but the irritated look was gone in seconds. "Then we are indeed in a dilemma," the man said with a nod. "And so, the stories are true, I must imagine. That somehow, a man did live below the Opera House, sneaking about through secret passageways to torture the managers and the staff alike. Tell me," he said with mock laughter, "are you the Phantom of the Opera?"

"No," the Persian said with a dangerous smirk. "Though I am no one to be reckoned with. My business here is none of yours."

"Oh, but it is, I assure you." He took out a pocket watch and glanced casually at the face of the expensive accessory. "Who are you?" The pocket watch was snapped shut.

"That is none of your concern."

"But my dear friend, it is." He shifted his weight, swinging the pocket watch by the chain. His fluid actions put the dark-skinned man on guard. "You see, I own half of this place. And therefore, what goes on inside its walls is indeed my concern. Especially as I've been privileged to see certain things this morning that I did not know. Tell me, does every room have a hidden door that leads to the cellars?"

"It's your concern to know," the Persian said, raising a dark eyebrow. "It is not my concern to tell you."

"My patience wears thin with you, sir," he said hotly, his eyes narrowing.

"That is a pity. I shall stop wasting your time, then." The Daroga stepped back behind the doorway before the man before him could react. The rock shifted, and again closed to reveal nothing but a seemingly plain stonewall.

Gritting his teeth, the dark eyed man immediately moved toward the wall. His hand came out, but he felt nothing but ridges. He continued to drag his hands over the rough, cold stone, narrowing his eyes as his search proved unsuccessful. How on earth did you open a slab of rock without having it beaten down!

The idea hit him as Raoul stumbled upon him. The blue-eyed boy looked at him with confused, troubled eyes. "Have you seen Christine? And what in heaven's name are you doing to the wall, Corin?" Raoul's face paled at Corin's icy stare. Memories of a dark man he did not know leading him through a secret hole in a wall, and then into a room of torture that was located in Erik's home, slammed into his mind. The remembrance made him feel sick, and bile threatened to burn his throat. "Oh my God..."


	12. Note

Readers,

I've been getting a lot of reviews and emails about whether or not I'm going to continue on with the story… well, I finally decided to give you guys a definite answer.

I honestly plan on finishing, though when I'll start writing it again is another matter. I honestly love the story, and of course, love PotO. So I don't want to leave this hanging. However, as a high school student, I am facing a lot of homework and studying, especially in the last few months of school. I've got AP tests coming up, finals, final project, the works… and as school work comes first in priority, I haven't had much time, if any, to actually write.

If anything, sometime in May, as things start to settle down for me, I'll continue this. Until then, I am sooo sorry for dragging you guys along with a cliffhanger! Thanks so much for your support!

Color Me In


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